High in the Halls
by Celtic Pixie
Summary: "When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you. Someone who's brave and gentle and strong."; Here was a girl who once dreamed of chivalrous knights and a boy who always wanted to be one
1. Dance With Me

Note- This was originally posted on AO3 for a secret santa exchange. I decided I'd bring it to so please enjoy :)

**Dance With Me**  
written by Celtic Pixie

..

"_Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet."__  
__– Plato_

..

The Godswood is a small wooded area, enclosed within castle walls, a place of worship and meditation by those who carry on the traditions of the First Men. At the center is a heart tree, usually a weirwood tree. Every castle in the north has a weirwood tree. South of the Neck, most of these trees were cut down or burnt several years ago; the Isle of Faces possesses a significant number, and many southern castles still have these Weirwood trees; the Red Keep is a rather recent castle and thus has no Weirwood tree; instead, the heart tree is a great oak covered in smokeberry wines that overlooks the Blackwater Rush.

It is here where Ser Jaime Lannister, Hand of the King, and Ser Brienne of Tarth, Lady Commander of the Kingsguard, came to exchange their vows. Septon Joseth was leading the ceremony. After Jaime was asked to cloak his bride and bring her under the protection of his house, the sermon began: _We stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife: one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever_. Jaime and Brienne held hands, standing side by side.

The Septon continued; _Let it be known that Ser Jaime of House Lannister and Ser Brienne of House Tarth are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder._He thentied their joined hands with a ribbon that symbolized their union. _In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity._

Standing just off center was Ser Podrick. He followed his Lady Commander loyally for many years even in times she grew impatient with him – which was very often, originally – and sometimes he was more of hinderance than a help—like the time he couldn't ride his horse properly or the time he accidentally set fire to a rabbit they were cooking…she tried getting rid of him on more than one occasion - but he always took his duties to her very seriously. His loyalty and devotion to her had paid off and he was rewarded with a knighthood. Soon after, he was raised to the Kingsguard. Though honored and proud to be a part of such an elite group of knights who serve as the royal bodyguard of the King of the Andals and the First Men, and thinking he finally found himself a home with belonging—he just felt like there was something… missing.

_Look upon one another and say the words…_

The bride and groom turned, standing facing each other, and recited their vows. First, they say the names of the Seven, speaking simultaneously: _Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger…_

Podrick's eyes wandered. He didn't mean for them to. But at the very moment when Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne exchanged their vows, he was looking anywhere but at them; those brown eyes of his wandered from the bride and groom, to the other Lords and Ladies, and finally to just one person: Her Grace, the Lady Sansa Stark, Queen in the North.

After this, it was time to recite their vows. While the groom is saying his words—_I am hers and she is mind. From this day, until the end of my days_—the bride is saying_ I am his and he is mind. From this day, until the end of my days_.

After the exchange of vows, Jaime turned away from the Septon, with Brienne's hand still clasped and tied to his own, and they faced the crowd. And then he announced, _with this kiss, I pledge my love _and in front of all those in attendance, Jaime and Brienne shared a kiss as man and wife. The roar of ovation snapped Podrick from his day-dream.

With his attention turned, he didn't see, he _couldn't_ see, the red-haired Northern queen stealing a brief glance his way and that distant look swimming in her eyes…

Sometime after the actual ceremony, everyone whisked themselves inside for the festivities. Seating arrangements remained practical; the King and Queen at the head of the Great Hall, besieged by Jaime and Brienne—to their right were Tyrion and Davos, and to their left were Bronn and Varys. There was Lord Gendry Baratheon, of course, seated close enough to the front, and members from House Arryn, House Tully, House Martell, House Lannister, and even House Greyjoy; Yara wasn't for the fanciness of the wedding itself but she was more than happy to indulge in a good ale after the fact.

And then there was Sansa Stark. It was her innocence, her childhood infatuation that made her susceptible to manipulations. The travails she endured in the years to come had made her stronger and more mature; caring much less for the traditional views she once loved.

Standing far enough away from the crowd, Podrick casually observed as everyone partook in the celebration and festivities. He was cheerful, kind and a well-meaning young man, who was always so eager to please others, but he was also shy and awkward. While everyone else was mingling, he had withdrawn. Maybe it was better this way though. He was Kingsguard; someone had to keep watch. Sure, there were others, and they could do the job just as well, so he could join everyone, but he felt obligated.

His absence had not gone overlooked. While visually perusing the room, Gendry took notice of the young man standing so far from everyone. Grabbing a second mug of ale, he got up from the table and decided he was going to join the timid knight.

Podrick saw him coming, thought maybe he could avoid the Baratheon, but no. Next thing he knew, there was a mug of ale thrusted into his hand. "I admit I haven't attended many marriages before…actually, this is my second one…," he said, "but is it normal for the bride's Man of Honor to be so recluse?" He took a swig of his own ale, still maintaining his eye contact with Podrick, who was looking from him to his own mug, casually running his fingers along the rim.

"Someone needs to stand guard," he answered, though he knew it wasn't the truthful answer; maybe he wasn't ready to admit the truthful answer, "As Kingsguard, it is my duty to…" He glanced up from his ale for a brief moment but that might have just been enough for him. Podrick sighed, looking over to where _she_ sat. "i-in case something goes… wrong.."

Gendry mocked offense; "There's the City Watch for that." He clapped the younger man on the shoulder, causing Podrick to briefly lose balance and a slosh of ale over the mug's rim. "Drink up, Ser Knight! This is a celebration and you should be celebrating!" His mug clinked with Podrick's before he himself took a swig.

"One of us should remain sober at least. Besides—" he looked down quietly, "—I don't think I ever cared for the taste of ale." He didn't see the look of mock-disappointment on Gendry's face.

"…you seem to have you fill of it at Winterfell."

"That was wine."

Gendry briefly pursed his lips, then continued, "Well, we all need to start somewhere…so…go on then…" He stood silent whilst observing the younger lad, who still eyed the mug of ale suspiciously, before a sigh passed his lips and he braved a drink. As the sweet, full-bodied beverage entered Podrick's throat, the knight sputtered and coughed hard. Gendry smirked, once again clapping the knight on his back. "Easy now. That's it."

_Cough_. "I think…" _Cough_. "…I've had…" _Cough_. "…enough…" _Cough_. He attempted to push the mug back at Gendry, but Gendry wasn't having it, and even shook his head, shoving his hand against the mug to resist, almost earning a scowl. "Seven Hells. I can't."

"By the GODS you are boring!" Gendry rolled his eyes; Podrick didn't seem offended by the remark. The ale in Podrick's hands remained untouched, but Gendry gladly helped himself to another swig of his own. Momentarily, his gaze wandered and in doing so… he noted _exactly_ what was getting Podrick so distracted. Smirking, he looked back at the knight, whose eyes weren't ahead of him anymore but staring downward. "…I get it now…"

As if caught doing something he shouldn't, Podrick's head snapped up; "G-Get what now…?" All of a sudden, he felt as though the room around him was spinning. That couldn't be possible; he didn't have _that_ much of his drink.

"What's got you so…distracted. How long has it been?" Gendry stared, practically revealing in the look he was given upon mention of the Northern Queen by name, as if saying so was either a shock he was so informal, or he caught the knight red-handed.

Podrick coughed, trying to hide his embarrassment that he'd been caught with a lingering gaze. "Oh! She's…Sansa—she's just…" his voice broke as he struggled because even as he thought of her, he was thinking of when they first met as teens and she wanted nothing to do with him. Friend, he wanted to say _she is my friend_.

"You fancy her," Gendry told him, matter-of-factly, very blunt and direct.

His cheeks reddened. "W-what? N-no! I do not…fancy her…!" He was doing it again. Stumbling over words when he was flustered. It happened every time he ever got nervous about something or someone. Gendry was laughing, which irritated him slightly. "What? I don't fancy her." And Gendry gave him one of those _uh-huhs_ that made it obvious he wasn't buying it; the all-knowing stare he gave the knight over the rim of his ale mug was telling enough.

"Oh yes you do," Gendry countered. He knew that familiar look in Podrick's eyes; he once had that same look about Arya. Before Podrick could protest differently, again, Gendry spoke up. "Listen, I get it. I felt the same way about Arya. Her sister is a beautiful woman.."

Podrick caved; "She is but…it's not about her looks. It's never _been_ about that…"

And Gendry listened as Podrick regaled him in how he and Sansa met as teenagers, how he had been fascinated with her since then, how he'd never admit that Sansa's marriage to Tyrion was a little heartbreaking—he couldn't say anything, of course; he was Tyrion's squire.

He never once believed _Sansa_ could ever be interested in someone like him. Despite being from a noble house himself, his family was only a cadet branch, and was a vassal house that held felty to House Lannister.

_I'm not worthy of her_, he'd think often.

As if Gendry was sensing what Podrick was internalizing, he was rubbing a hand between the knight's shoulder blades and saying, "You should go over there," and Podrick was giving him that sideways glance, the one that said, _are you kidding_, but Gendry just waved it off. "Go! Ask her to dance."

"I don't even know if I can d-d-dan.."

"Dance?"

"—with her I mean."

Gendry smirked. "You won't know if you don't even go over there." When Podrick said nothing, just sipped at his ale, he was given a gentle push. "Go get her."

And so he did.

~.~.~.~.~

Sansa remembered standing on Winterfell's ramparts as Stark and Targaryen forces converged upon the castle, and how she cautiously stared as the dragons – Drogon and Rhaegal – flew overhead. She greet Jon just fine but Daenerys she regarded with a more colder, straight-faced demeanor; the two women exchanged courtesies, albeit a tense greeting. As she lamented over the message sent by Robett Glover, stating he would be remaining in Deepwood Mott with his troops, she expressed her disapproval of Jon bending the knee to the Targaryen queen; though she had unwavering faith in him, Sansa wondered if he bent the knee in order to save the North, or out of love for this woman.

She remembered Daenerys coming to her, asking for a moment of privacy, addressing political issues involved in their alliance, and of the reasoning behind Sansa's initial distrust of the dragon queen. She was worried that Daenerys was simply manipulating Jon, while the dragon queen assured her of her love and lack of ulterior motives. A somewhat better understanding seemed to develop though when pressed about the North's independence, Daenerys remained rather mute on the subject.

They hadn't seen each other during the battle – Daenerys atop Drogon, before a sword had been forced into her hand, and Sansa in the crypts, telling herself she was hiding with the rest of those who couldn't protect themselves, and feeling ashamed at doing so. She hadn't told anyone, least of all Jon – and the details remained hazy, if she was honest – but there she was, crouched behind a tomb, with Tyrion beside her, and then… there was a dagger clutched tightly in her hand. It hadn't been the one Arya had given her… but a blade made of dragon glass—given to her by another…

The survivors had gathered to pay their respects to the dead; Daenerys said a tearful farewell to Jorah as Sansa placed a pin bearing the House Stark direwolf onto Theon's body before lighting the pyre herself. The two women sought comfort in themselves. As she watched the pyre burn, Sansa hadn't even noticed the dragon queen stepping up beside her until the latter's hand had taken her own. They stood together, as one, supporting one another. Whatever distrust they had for each other had gone that day. And in subsequent days to come.

They were standing side by side again, a drink in each of their hands, and this is where they were found when Podrick walked up upon them. He said nothing at first; though Sansa intimidating him, he was scared of the dragon queen. He felt rather ill. His stomach twisted. Had it been the ale turning? Maybe, it was the nerves doing it. His entire body felt warm and feverish. His heartbeat was strong, drumming on and on and just maybe they could hear its precipitous beating. Podrick worried it would crawl from his chest. Just plop out in front of them, mercilessly thrashing on the floor, and he'd be dead.

He must have looked ridiculous just standing there. They had noticed him—Daenerys raised a brow, Sansa acknowledging him before asking how he was finding the party—but Podrick hadn't said much of anything to either of them. It was only a second or two more before he remembered his courtesies. The dragon queen excused herself rather quickly, leaving Sansa and Podrick alone with each other. It was a tense and awkward filled silence; neither knew what to say, and Podrick's face was still flush with embarrassment.

Finally—_finally_—he attempted a simple; "Hel—good evening—I mean, h-hi… your g-grace…" He could barely formulate the words. He stammered over every last one.

"Good evening, Ser Podrick," she said. She saw the flush in his cheeks deepen; this prompted a smile; one she hadn't even been aware of until it registered to her that the corners of her mouth had even turned. "Are you not enjoying yourself?"

Podrick looked as though he had been whipped. "Oh, of course I am! I mean, enough as I can be I guess.. enough as I _should_… " He scratched at the nape of his neck, and briefly glanced over his shoulder to see if Gendry had been watching—he was—before looking back at Sansa. "I came to ask… well, what I mean to say is that, well, I guess what I _trying_ to ask is, erm… dance! With me! Would you?" He didn't look back to see if Gendry was still watching though Podrick was sure of it. Being this inarticulate was embarrassing.

Sansa's past had given her more than enough reason to be cautious of men. Her harrowing experiences, all the suffering she had been through, the numerous tragedies—the crimes against herself and her family, causing her personality to turn more ruthless, however; still being able to retain some degree of compassion. She once naively believed in tales of epic romances, the ones where the princess would get her honorable knight in shining armor. Stories involving mythical figures like Jonquil and historical ones like Duncan Targaryen infatuated her, and now she had _Podrick Payne_ standing in front of her asking to dance.

Sansa has always been initially wary of him because of his familiar relation to Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice, but she had soon come to realize that Podrick had been just as frightened of her as she had been of his cousin. There were moments she would talk to him, but he would always fluster, turning the most alarming shade of red.

She truly believed it was Jon who restored her faith in men. So as Podrick fumbled over himself as he was asking her for a dance, Sansa had smiled—a true, genuine smile; "I would be honored, Ser Knight."

Podrick blinked; taken aback, he stammered out, "You, you would?" He inhaled and exhaled, slowly; his racing heart had regulated, less of this mind-numbing drumming on it had been doing.

She grabbed his mug of ale and placed it down on the table then, seizing his hand, whisked him onto the dance floor, joining others who gathered to partake in a courtly dance. Podrick sputtered, knowing he really didn't know what he was doing but only knowing how he'd seen others dance and wanted to try it. Sansa was far more accustomed to court dances. She instructed him to stand in front of her, so he was in line with the few other men while she stood opposite him, joining the ladies standing opposite their partners. Once the band started up, Sansa was mouthing for Podrick to _bow_ as she curtsied. They offered the hands to each other then took a step in. They stood close, close enough for him to get a good look at her eyes, how blue they were. He smiled and she reciprocated.

They took a step back from each other and he casually spun her under his left arm. As they faced each other again, another curtsey and a bow took place. With their hands still locked, Podrick and Sansa once again took a step in towards each other. This time, instead of returning to their previous positions, they circled around one another, raising their arms only slightly, until their hands leveled with their eyes; not once had they ever lost eye contact with each other.

At this point, they had turned, only slightly, facing four others—Samwell Tarly to Podrick's left, Bronn of the Blackwater to his right; standing next to Sansa, on each side of her, was Samwell's wife Gilly and whichever young beauty Bronn had sweetened this time. Samwell and Gilly joined hands, danced around each other, and stopped on opposite sides from where they started. Bronn and his lady did the same. The circle of six extended their arms towards the center then walked clockwise for a count of six. They stopped, bowed and curtsied, and repeated the same as before, this time walking counter clockwise for the same count of six. When they stopped, as before, they bowed and curtsied.

Samwell and Gilly joined hands, danced around each other, and switched places again. Once again, Bronn and his raven-haired beauty had done the same. They each turned to their respective partners and bowed or curtsied then turned, faced towards the wall, took up each other's hands, and walked a few steps forwards, stopping on a count of four only to bow once more.

The couples faced one another other again, stepped into each other's space. Podrick and Sansa were within inches, close enough to where her neck tickled with goosebumps whenever he exhaled. It was this moment that got her a good look into his eyes; those soft, chestnut hues… so warm and comforting. Hers dazed in all their Tully blue brilliance. Sansa wasn't even aware she had been staring for so long until they stepped away from each, took their bows and curtsies, and suddenly everyone was erupting in applause.

With a diminutive smile, Sansa thanked him for the dance then walked off to rejoin her table. Samwell and Gilly walked as well, but Bronn remained, shooting him a sideways grin.

Podrick caught the stare, shrugging his shoulders upwards, with a "What?" as he had no idea what that look from Bronn meant.

"The northern Queen, she's an attractive one." And there was sounded like a muttered agreement from Podrick, then Bronn added, "You want to fook her," he bluntly stated, catching the much younger man off his guard, and Bronn chuckled at the shade of red turned in Podrick's cheeks.

His shock turned to a scowl; "What? No!" Podrick shrugged off Bronn's hand the minute it touched his shoulders so the elder clapped him on the back, forcing the younger off his step.

Bronn laughed. "Oh yes you do. I've seen the way you look at her…" He knew there was no denying that; he'd seen the passing looks here and there.

"No. I-It's definitely not like that. I—" He was feeling quite flushed again, and it was at this point that Bronn knew.

"Oh no! I see what's going on."

"What?"

"You're in LOVE!"

Podrick's face colored. "Definitely not!" Despite what he was saying, however, the tone in his voice and color in his face said otherwise. "I d-don't know…where you got that i-idea from…" Again, Bronn clapped him on the back but at least this time, Podrick didn't lose his balance.

"Trust me, lad, I know that look." His head arched slightly left, and Podrick's eyes followed; "You think I didn't recognize that same fookin' look in their stupid eyes? I knew he'd be fookin' her and she'd be fookin' him and look at that…I'm right again!" When he looked back and saw Podrick rolling his eyes, Bronn just laughed. "You and I both know it's going to happen."

"No it isn't."

"Right. Okay." He started walking off, then added, "Just make sure to send an invite for the weddin'." Bronn rejoined some of the others; laughing, drinking, putting aside such things as young love.

Talk with Bronn hadn't just left him flustered but also affronted as well; what he felt for Sansa, whatever _this_ was, had been something he kept to himself for many years. He was just a young lad, a boy of six and ten, when he came to King's Landing as Lord Tyrion's squire. He was timid, withdrawn.. but he remembered a young red-headed beauty whose name was Stark. There were many times he wished he could have said something to her, been brave enough to do so, but it was always his nerves that got in his way.

The way Joffrey callously treated her made his blood boil, but he was too frightened to do anything. They'd have him whipped or worse. At least Tyrion was kinder, and he trusted his Lord, so he knew Sansa was in better hands. But following Joffrey's murder at his own wedding feast, she was gone. Many assumed the worst; Cersei Lannister sure did.

It would be some time before he would see her again, and he felt the same as he did when he first saw her. He knew then what he still knew to this day: he wanted to protect her. Podrick wanted to be the knight who rescued the princess. He knew there was no denying Bronn's words: he was in love with Sansa Stark.

Frustrated and angry with himself, Podrick snatched up the discarded mug of ale, gulped the rest of it down in one go, wiped off his mouth on the back of his sleeve, then walked off.

He would go on denying his heart for a while longer.

~.~.~.~.~

The jovial noise echoed down the hall as he walked, dying off in a slow and painful manner until he slipped around a corner and barely heard anything at all. He swaggered a bit from the ale, the sweet drink it was, but kept on moving forwards, ignoring his low-level of intoxication. He wasn't used to it and perhaps he had too much of it. Sleeping it off would be the best course of action now. Let the others continue their merriment; Podrick was _done_. He wasn't much for this sort of thing anyway. Not willingly. But the drink helped him endure it; he must remember to thank Gendry for that.

He stopped once he rounded another corner and gave himself some time to recoup. The corridors were just a wee bit dark; only the flicker of candlelight made it possible to see where anyone was walking. While the hallways and passage ways of the Red Keep weren't a maze of narrow streets and alleyways as Flea Bottom was, it would still be difficult enough to get around if someone didn't already knew where they were going.

The Red Keep was fashioned of pale red stone – therefore the name – and looked out over the mouth of Blackwater Rush. Much of the castle was connected underground. The curtain walls surrounding the castle were massive and stone parapets, some four feet high – at least, stood to protect the outer edges of the ramparts. The walls of the castle had great bronze gates with narrow postern doors nearby. Behind these walls were the small inner yard, covered bridges, barracks for the City Watch, dungeons, granaries, kennels for the dogs, and stables for the horses. Maegor's Holdfast, the small council chambers, the Tower of the Hand, the lower bailey, a small sucken courtyard, and the black cells were all located beneath the circuitous steps leading to the castle while the Great Hall, the outer yard, the Godswood, the river walk, the small kitchen, the pig yard, the royal sept, and the Maidenvault were all located above the steps.

When Podrick first arrived at King's Landing, he had a great deal of effort finding his way around. More than often, it would have been Tyrion shepherding him around. Or one of castle maids. At least once, it was Cersei who found him wandering around. Podrick had to then explain to Tyrion why he had been crying. Of course, the Red Keep had nothing on Winterfell's massive size, whose walls were composed of dozens of courtyards and small open spaces and the corridors themselves felt more like a never ending maze. It took him ages to find his way around _that_ castle.

He pushed off from the walls he steadied himself against and proceeded towards the White Sword Tower, one of towers within the Red Keep that contained the chambers of all seven Kingsguard members. It was a slender, four-storied structure built into an angle of the castle; the tower oversaw Blackwater Bay. The first floor was the common room. White wool hangings decorated the stone walls. The room contained a large weirwood table carved in the shape of a shield. This room is where the White Book – a book that records all the deeds of every member who has ever served for the last three hundred years; Podrick secretly hoped to be reading his own entry one day, perhaps being the one who writes it – resides. The second and third floors held the sparse sleeping quarters for six of the members whereas the topmost floor contained the apartments of the Lady Commander.

Podrick stifled a yawn, putting a closed fist to his mouth, then continued. As he ambled down yet another corridor, this one decorated by candles and tapestries, he was not paying to where he stepped next and assumed the mass he stumbled into had been a wall. It wasn't until his clouded eyes cleared that he saw what – or rather _who_ – he literally walked into: Sansa Stark. Podrick immediately started fidgeting with his own fingernails, avoiding eye contact, and trying to keep his own heart from jumping into his throat.

Sansa looked just as startled; she wasn't expecting to be running into anyone. "Oh gods! I apologize," she sputtered, feeling her cheeks burning red, "Are you alright?" _I obviously wasn't looking where I was going. I'm such an idiot_, she thought, but smartly hadn't said out loud.

"Oh! Y-Yes…" He finally picked his head up, but his face was still very flushed in the cheeks when he was looking at her; every time he did, his face would always feel hot and uncomfortable. "Oh! N-No… your Grace… it was I who should have been paying attention. I could have hurt you! I'm so sorry!" His words were coming out faster than he meant them to.

"You couldn't have hurt me, Ser knight," she corrected; _you could never have hurt me nor would you have, _her inner thoughts were telling her, _you are definitely not like all the others. _

The coloring in Podrick's face brightened. There would never be a moment where he'd ever think about hurting Sansa. She had struggled far too much in her life already. She deserved so much. _No, never_, he was telling himself.

Podrick was looking at her just then, entranced by her, before she had called to him and shaking the webs from his head, he realized just how long he had let the silence go on. "My apologies," he muttered, then scratching at the back of his neck, he added, "It must be the ale. I should go back to my quarters. Enjoy your evening."

Gracing her with a courteous bow, Podrick turned and meandered off.

But then, "Wait, ser kn—I mean, Podrick…"

_She said my name! _He stopped, turned, and looked at her; "Did I say something to offend…?"

"No," she answered, and it was obvious—at least to her—that she was suddenly quite nervous, and she couldn't figure out the reason. Sansa stepped forwards and suddenly her heart was jumping. "I… I wasn't planning to go back. I've had enough for one night I think. I will probably retire for the evening." _I came looking for you but now that I'm here, I don't know what to say and I feel quite foolish and, oh my gods, I am overthinking this way too much!_ Her head and her heart were both screaming at her; she blamed the ale.

"Where are your quarters?" They were right outside White Sword Tower; Podrick knew where the extra bedrooms were, normally kept for guests, and they were nowhere near the rooms for the Kingsguard. Either Sansa had gotten herself lost or—

She pointed a thumb over her right shoulder, "Maidenvault," she answered. It was far enough away from the White Sword Tower that Sansa knew very well she had taken a wrong turn.

The long, slate-roofed Keep behind the royal sept was only called Maidenvault because King Baelor I Targaryen had once confined his sisters there to avoid them tempting him with carnet thoughts. Mace Tyrell and entourage were once housed there during the Battle of the Blackwater, and the late Queen Margaery remained in quarters there even after her marriage to Tommen.

"You're far enough from there…"

Sansa nodded; "I must have gotten myself turned around. You see, it's been a while since I've visited these halls and perhaps I don't remember them as well as I thought I did," _I could never forget these walls even if I had tried to. The real reason I went the wrong way was—_"I'd be grateful if you would escort me. You probably know your way around more than I can remember right now." She didn't _think_ she drank that much but maybe she did, and she didn't realize it.

Podrick swore the palpitations made it feel like his heart was beating too hard, or too fast, skipping a beat now and then, or fluttering. He noticed them in his chest, his throat, and his neck. Normally, they could be bothersome or frightening; he hadn't felt like that since facing down death at Winterfell some years ago. He's felt them before, usually brought on by stress or anxiety.

Now Sansa Stark was asking _him_ to be her personal escort.

Swallowing hard, he nodded; "Al-Alright…" _I'd hate for you to be wandering these halls alone… at night… so I will gladly escort you, the woman I've been in love with since I was six and ten…_

He pushed aside his thoughts, gathered up his wits, and offered an arm; _a knight must always be brave in front of a lady. _Once Sansa took the offered appendage, Podrick gave her a warm smile. The awkward pair meandered off away from the White Sword Tower and remained silent for most of the trek back to Maidenvault. There was probably a lot of things they could have said to each other, many things they could have caught up on they missed out on, maybe from those sparse moments as teenagers. Podrick attempted to, even opened his mouth to form the words—but no sound ever came out, and he promptly shut his mouth.

He wasn't the only one feeling voiceless; Sansa couldn't say anything either. There was a lot she could say, many things she could have thanked him for, but she didn't even know where to start. Sansa felt the tears prickling her eyes. She forced them back before Podrick could see. The less she would have to explain, the better of they both were.

Once they reached Maidenvault, she was starting to feel a little like herself though her chest was tight and the warmth radiating from Podrick's body was keeping a smile on her face though neither of them had looked at the other; if only they could have been reading the thoughts of the other person. It felt more like a reprieve once they reached her quarters, stopping right outside her door. Sansa turned, _finally_ facing him, and the flush in his cheeks had not diminished.

Slowly, Sansa unhooked her arm from Podrick's; "Thank you for the escort…" She reached for the door but at the last second, hesitated, as if she was missing something or was thinking of something… else.

"You are most welcome," he said. There was a momentary pause—his heart was fluttering again; his nerves were trying to get the better of him—before he added; "Sleep well, Your Grace." He left it at that. Turning from her so she wouldn't see that look in his eyes, Podrick started walking off. It was Sansa's voice calling to her that had him stopping and looking back.

"Please," she started, "Call me Sansa."

Podrick nodded. "Of course. As you wish-" there was that meager pause in which he could probably hear the blood pounding in his ears.

She disappeared into her quarters, shutting the door behind her.

"-Sansa."


	2. Chivalry Isn't Dead

**Chivalry Isn't Dead**  
written by CelticPixie

..

"_Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid"._**-Fyodor Dostoyevsky**

..

_She wouldn't have thought to consider the Lady of Winterfell a friend, but she supposed it was possible; the pair had known each other long enough, been through enough—long enough for a lifetime._

_Brienne watched as Sansa's gaze had wandered once more. Sansa had been looking into the interior courtyard and watching as everyone passed by – on occasion, there would even be those who met her gaze and offered her a polite nod. It was not the men who truly caught her attention, however; but a squire, one with hair as black as coal and eyes as brown as a stag's pelt. He mustn't have noticed. _

_But Brienne—she had noticed. She shared her time flitting a look between her sworn lady and her squire, almost daring to imagine what one or the other might have been thinking. She noted that Sansa was__not been smiling, but a rather impassable expression she could only began to contemplate the meaning of. Looking back at her squire, she realized they had been spotted. He was looking at them. Most importantly, he was looking at her. The gaze between squire and lady lasted about as long as a heartbeat; Podrick wandered off and Sansa had broken away her gaze, blinking as though fresh snow had collected on her lashes. _

_She did not look back at Brienne but kept herself looking at the snow on the courtyard, even long after Podrick had left her sight. Her curiosity had peaked; though, she never would have bothered to care before. There… there was something—maybe. Something there that gnawed at her belly. Perhaps it was memories she hadn't completely forgotten._

_Brienne seemed curious to the way Sansa was staring. Her squire – Lord Tyrion's former squire – had come into her service as a means to get him out of King's Landing. It certainly hadn't been requested and she attempted to release him from his vows not ten minutes after leaving the capital._

_Sansa opened her mouth, but closed it quickly, instead looking back to nothing, and maybe trying to find something else to focus on._

_Brienne arched a brow. She had already suspected this was going somewhere. "Podrick is a good man, Lady Sansa" Brienne assured the younger woman; it seemed, to her at least, that this Lady of Winterfell had deep reservations about Podrick Payne that Brienne didn't understand. "He's always taken his duties to me very seriously."_

_Sansa nodded; "I know that… but—" She pulled her posture tighter, so she seemed more stiff, more standoffish. She would catch a look, once or twice, but he'd always turn from her. "-he is cousin to Ser Ilyn Payne," Sansa said; she knew exactly where this inquiry was heading. The look in Brienne's eyes bespoke__confusion, and curiosity. "The King's justice – he executed my father for treason on Joffrey's orders." She had been apprehensive of the man in the beginning, but she no longer had those doubts of Podrick's loyalty and judging him from atrocities not by his own hand was wrong of her; she knew that now. _

_This fact was lost on Brienne, who would never had assumed there was a reason for anyone—much less Sansa—to be terrified of someone like Podrick, who was always ever cheerful and gentle. Brienne was more than interested at this point. But before she could inquire further, Sansa continued on that same thought train. _

_Brienne nodded; she contemplated Sansa's confession. She too had been guilty of misplaced scrutiny. She initially tried rejecting the offer of a squire – when Ser Jaime reasoned the boy would be safer with her - arguing that he would only slow her down, and later tried to rid herself of him by releasing him from his vow; whether obstinacy or his pride talking, he refused to leave. She came to admire the young man. _

_She had taken a liking to her squire and felt a semblance of protectiveness over him. She attempted not to show it, but Brienne had visibly stiffened at Sansa's words. "Do you not trust him?" King's Landing was a ways away and it felt like such a lifetime ago. They were different people now; older, wiser, perhaps. _

_If it had been anyone else, Sansa might have rebuked them for speaking to her in such a tone, but Brienne wasn't just anyone else, and Sansa knew the woman meant well; she was protective of Podrick, and it showed whenever they spoke of the squire. "Though I've tried to be amiable," she started, and sighed, "I haven't always been the kindest towards him. He deserved better." She had grown, just as Podrick did, but her experiences caused her to become reserved and distrustful. "I judged him poorly and I wish I could take it back."_

_Brienne had been biting her lip; she, too, had judged Jaime poorly on many levels but none of which she could take back—only move forward._

"_Might I offer a suggestion, my Lady?"_

"_I trust you implicitly, Lady Brienne," Once again, Sansa nearly smiled, "I don't say it enough to assure you of that—" She was thinking of something else as well, "—and, I dare say that I've come to consider you a friend as well. I have so few of those these days: True friends."_

"_None of us know what will come of this war; who will survive, what will be left of them… but there are those still here, now, and many of us deserve a chance…"_

_There was something still holding her back. Fear, perhaps. Fear of what? Fear of the unknown? Still, there had something in him that she hadn't seen in the others. An innocent lad, with a kind and loving heart. Someone who has always ever treated her with decency and respect. And she barely ever spoke two words to him. _

_**Gods give me strength**__; a sweet entreaty that stopped before it reached her lips; she hardly prayed for herself anymore. If she hadn't walked off, hadn't decided to follow after the squire, Sansa never would. Her nerves would have failed her, then. She respired gradually, slowly breathing out of her mouth. Her agitation increased. She wanted to turn back. Go back to where it was safe. Hide away from him. But he would still be there the next day, and the day after that, and they all might be dead come the long night. _

Specific memories were not something Sansa continued to dwell on. She didn't like to remember the terrible periods in her past; those moments with Joffrey, or Ramsey, or getting caught within the web of lies and deceit that Petyr Baelish would spin. So many memories she'd rather forget. She pushed them away, moving on from them as best she could. But then, there were the memories she didn't want to be forgetting; her loving and doting father, the last moments with her mother, growing up with her family… reuniting with Jon, Arya, and Bran. Sansa thought she would be content by that point.

There were more memories to be had; some good, some bad. But if Brienne hadn't encouraged Sansa to speak to the young squire, then the Lady of Winterfell might never had added yet another memory.

_The tightness in her chest unraveled, slowly, until the collective mutters faded off, replaced by something more melodious: __**High in the halls of the king who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts**__…the words had been. Sansa didn't know the emotions she meant to be feeling, only that an uneasiness had settled in her heart the more she heard…__**The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, and the ones who had loved her the most**__…She bit down a little at her bottom lip; she must know who was singing such a song. The song was somber, but the voice was sweet-sounding; as if she heard that same singing before, when she was much younger… and, perhaps, another time…_

_The rhythmic crooning was coming from the armory. Despite being able to close eyes and mentally take herself through every nook and cranny of Winterfell, Sansa was unfamiliar with the armory. She never came here; had no reason for it. Closer, she walked, until she was just outside. Sansa stopped, taking it in all at once, and slowly realizing that she wasn't as anxious as before. The panic in her chest had subsided almost completely; a sense of tranquility washing over her in waves. _

_And then, there it was—a face to put to a song: Podrick Payne. Sansa observed, quietly. He reminded her of Arya during Septa Mordane's lessons; down-cast eyes, lost in thought, oblivious to all else around him. She always had a tenderness for the squire with the gentlest of hearts, even if she never allowed herself to open up to him._

_She remembered singing; how happy it made her when she did. But she didn't sing, not anymore. There should be at least someone in this castle who still enjoyed the sweet sounds of their own voice._

When the battle between the army of the dead and the people of the North finally took place, it was Sansa and her sister Arya who quietly observed from the castle walls. As the charge of Dothraki screamers was repelled and wights advanced on the barricades, Arya turned to her sister and ordered her to the crypts. Sansa wasn't a fighter. Her place was not on the ramparts as their doom marched forwards. She protested, she pleaded, but in the end, she went anyway. Not without Arya attempting to hand her a dragonglass dagger: _Still 'em with the point end_, she said. Sansa didn't need it; she had another. It had already been gifted to her by someone else. Someone taller. Someone who admired her from afar for many years and wanted nothing but the best for her.

Tyrion was restless but Sansa reminded him they were all there for a reason; they wouldn't be able to help, not the way they should, so there was nothing for them to do but wait – it was most heroic thing they could be doing at that moment. She acknowledged he was the _best of them_, a compliment Tyrion hadn't taken lightly. After the dead breached the castle walls and found their way into the crypts – previously emptied of dead bodies so the Night King's spell could not reanimated the dead – the living had scrambled for cover. Somehow, Sansa had ended up crouched behind a large stone casket with Tyrion.

While the pair looked desperately at the other, Sansa pulled out the dragonglass dagger. It was not the one Arya attempted to give her. Tyrion recognized it. He didn't say anything, but he knew the name of the person who gave it to Sansa; it wasn't her sister Arya. It warmed him knowing someone else was watching out for her. There was a brief, unspoken moment that passed between her and Tyrion. Neither of them thought they would be making it out of this situation alive. He kissed her hand, bidding her a farewell, and tears were in her eyes.

When the survivors gathered outside of Winterfell's gates amongst the dozens of funeral pyres, Sansa mourned for the loss of Theon Greyjoy; her friend, _brother_. The flames had been hard to watch. Her eyes subverted when the smoke became too much. Standing close to Jaime and Brienne was a very bruised and battered Podrick Payne. Her heart had thumped then, warmed by the knowledge of his survival. He had caught her looking and offered a comforting smile.

_The flush in Podrick's cheeks deepened, and Sansa nearly offered him a smile. She felt it, just behind the muscles in her face, but she forbade herself from doing so at the last second._

_Sansa found herself staring at him. And he at her. _

_She saw, with absolute certainty, that Podrick had the gentlest of eyes. Her brother used to have soft and gentle eyes, but years at the Wall, and beyond, had changed him. His eyes were not soft anymore, nor were they gentle; not like Podrick's eyes._

_She realized that, maybe, there was something there; something that made her feel warm. Whatever it was, it burned deep in her chest. Sansa found a spot on the floor and stared at it; her face had turned from him before he could see that her cheeks had warmed._

_She gaped at it, putting her mind elsewhere; not here, she thought, not with the man who frightened me for so long. She knew it couldn't have been his doing. Podrick was not responsible for the atrocities committed by the King's Justice. As a girl, Sansa had convinced herself otherwise—__**It was the name: Payne – **_**his**_** name – that I dreaded**__, she admitted; an entirely unfair assessment, but a truth she lived with._

The dance was over far too soon. She would have liked it to continue. But she returned to her table where others were waiting; neither said a word. She preferred it. Her heart was still in flutter. She didn't want the interrogation about the knight she was clandestinely so fond of. Part of her _longed_ to kiss him. But the other half queried the judgment knowing the perils she had gone through. She needed a distraction. Something to take her mind off the thoughts running wild through it.

Sansa snatched up a pitcher, poured herself some ale, and gulped it down in one go. A few had looked her way with raised eyebrows; she ignored them all. She didn't understand. As teenagers, there was hardly a moment she spent in company of the knight. If she spoke to him at all, it was rare. And it wasn't like Podrick strived for the effort of her attention either. It wouldn't have been proper. She had been married to Tyrion; _still?_ They never consummated. Technically, the marriage was never valid.

Sansa's thoughts were betraying her again; the ale hadn't been enough to dull them out… Emotions were something she didn't express. Not openly. She imagined a quiet evening at Winterfell: she was dressed in a white satin gown—adorned with red blooming flowers—and _he_ wore the finest of robes, everyone gathered from castles scattered across all of Westeros, and they were joined as husband and wife in the eyes of the Gods—the old and the new.

An image that would never come to pass; she was the Queen of the North and he was knight to the Kingsguard of their graces, Jon and Daenerys—it was a pairing that would not… _could not_… happen. What Sansa wanted was nothing more than a dream of a little girl who still believed in chivalrous knights and beautiful princesses to be rescued by those knights. When she returned to Winterfell, Sansa knew she would be doing it along. At some point, she would be obligated to marry a Lord and produce heirs, an idea that once delighted her.

She must have permitted her mind to wander _too_ much; a single tear escaped her, tumbling down her right cheek before she could sweep it off. Another had. _Someone_ had seen her tear. That someone hadn't been anyone she traveled with but an old friend who remained loyal to her for years; when Sansa looked, it was the Lady Commander—Ser Brienne Lannister—staring down, expression softened, curious…

Sansa nodded, dismissively; "Oh, Ser Brienne," she started, completely ignoring the fact she was caught crying and worse, that it was _Brienne_ who was wiping away her tears; "my congratulations on your marriage. It has been a long time coming." She forced a smile.

"I appreciate your gratitude, your Grace…" Brienne's voice trailed a bit.

The pause was there; Sansa knew what it was the Lady Commander wanted to know; "Ask your questions, Ser Brienne…"

"I did not want to interfere into your personal life, but I sense uneasiness in you."

Sansa sighed; it wasn't the first time she tried secreting anything from Brienne. Truthfully, she never could. The Lady Commander was just too familiar with her feelings. "Don't be fretting yourself about me. Not today. This is a festive affair for you and the Lord Hand…" As much as she wanted to make it seem like she cared more about Ser Brienne's happiness than her own, there was still sadness clinging to her voice.

"I _do_ worry, your grace. Seeing you upset distresses me." Brienne looked off yonder to where Podrick had meandered off to; there was a moment, then, of a frown creasing her mouth. "It's not ever too late to tell an important person exactly how you feel…"

"I… cannot. We cannot. It… It isn't conceivable- for us…"

"It is if you allow it to be. Go." Sansa glanced at her with some level of scrutiny; Brienne was more understanding than the Queen of the North gave her credit for sometimes. "If it is valuable enough to you, there is nothing that should prohibit you from rewarding your desire."

Sansa had tears in her eyes; _When you're older, I'll find you a match with someone who's worthy of you. Someone brave and gentle and strong…. _

Podrick was that '_someone brave and gentle and strong'_

~.~.~.~.~

The door had shut. Now it was just her… her and her own thoughts. She pressed herself against the wood; her mind running adrift, her heart a-flutter inside her chest. Just on the other side of that door was a man she knew she was in love with but too afraid to say anything for fear of having her heart broken again. Sansa _knew_ Podrick would _never_ do that to her, but something buried in her subconscious was trying to convince her otherwise. She stood there wondering if he was still on the other side of that door.

Was he thinking of her as she was thinking of him? Sansa sighed; if he was still standing there, waiting for _something_—maybe waiting for _her_.

Sansa was thinking, maybe over-thinking _too_ much…

_One minute she had been risking life and limb to escape Winterfell – ironic that she would ever need to escape from her own home; Ramsey had seen to that – and the next, she was wading chest deep through an icy river. She thought of Theon then, and what he'd done for her; he owed her a great deal after what he had done; she supposed saving her from Ramsey was his way of beginning his redemption. In her eyes, anyway. But then they huddled behind a downed tree, and he tried so very hard to rub warmth back into her freezing body, and suddenly merely escaping her ancestral home wasn't enough; the hounds were on them._

_Sansa balked at the thought. Only later on wound the irony of hounds come back into play. She thought she was done for. She thought Theon might betray her. Give away their position. He tried to get them away. Off her scent. But hounds were such resourceful creatures. They picked it up immediately and rushed past Theon. They found her alright and Sansa recalled the way her heart was beating in her throat just assuming these hounds would rip flesh from bone right there. She knew death would be painful, but she prepared herself for it. Getting ripped limb from limb by blood-thirsting hounds was probably a reprieve anyway; any death would have been ideal if it meant she didn't have to be raped every night._

_But death did not come for Sansa that day. Her savior, as it turned out, was the same woman she had turned down so long ago, before Lifflefinger sold her off to Ramsey Bolton. And she kept thinking that maybe she should have accepted the woman's offer of service that day in the tavern; it would have saved her from the torment she was forced to endure. There was more. A second rescuer had come, riding in on a metaphorical white horse, sword in hand; the very sword held in Sansa's hands now – the knight had come to save the princess, she thought; __**maybe those stories do still exist…**_

Remembering that day, the day she _knew_ with inevitability, that she was falling for him, Sansa made a call; exhaling, she prayed he would still be standing there when she opened the door…

…and he was.

They stared at each other awkwardly for a while. Of course, neither knew exactly what to say. Surely a woman who called herself Queen of the North could muster up a few words for the knight. And even if she could think of something, Podrick hadn't spoken either. Time ticked by. Too much, it seemed like.

And then…

"I suppose I… I should be going now… but—" Podrick stammered out only a few words; scratching at the back of his neck while trying to figure out how he was meant to continue.

He didn't have to. "…I know," Sansa uttered, seemingly knowing where he was going with this. Again, there was a moment, in which only their shared breathing could be heard, before; "Would you care to come in?" Her heart was beginning to drum a repetitive beat.

Podrick's breathing became uneven, but he nodded and stepped inside.

_Eventually, she lifted her eyes from the spot on the floor, and then; "You have been in service of Lady Brienne for some time now have you not?" She turned to face him._

"_Y-yes, milady."_

"_And, how long do you suppose that has been?" Get to know him, Brienne's voice resonated in her mind. _

_Podrick shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose – I mean, I don't remember. A couple of years, I guess. They all just…blur together…" He responded with a quaking voice. He inhaled and exhaled, slowly; his racing heart had regulated, less of this mind-numbing drumming on it had been doing. _

_There was the issue of his service weapon still on the floor. Sansa noticed it; Podrick appeared heedless of it. She retrieved it, unaware of gaping eyes watching her. She stood straight, grasping the sword by the pommel. It was nothing significant, but she marveled at it just the same. _

_And then she asked; "Is this the sword?" Sansa still clutched it like a lifeline. She remembered it well, remembered how he used it to slay Bolton men; it was not something she'd forget anytime soon. _

_Podrick, he looked confused. "Milady…?" _

"_You killed men with this sword." Finally, finally, she looked up again; their eyes met. "Bolton men." Many things Sansa had forced herself to forget but this – Podrick, and Brienne, coming to her rescue – was not something she could ever allow herself to forget. "I remember. How could I forget? If you and Lady Brienne hadn't – if you hadn't come, I—" Sansa's voiced faded off; knowing what she wanted to say, but not able to say it._

"_I was doing my duty, milady."_

_Her voice broke a little; "You did so much more than that," she told him. _

_Sansa felt the tears prickling her eyes. She forced them back before Podrick could see. The less she would have to explain, the better of they both were._

_Her focus was the sword she held; what it meant to her was far more important than crying over a past she couldn't change. She thumbed the pommel, as if memorizing the details of something that seemed fairly generic to anyone else._

_And then; "Keep it safe," she remarked, "Always." _

_When she handed his sword back to him, Sansa paid unusually close attention as he reached for it. Their hands, they almost – almost – brushed one another, but Podrick had quickly recoiled with a fresh crimson on his cheeks at the almost-maybe-touching. _

_She was undoubtedly seeing now that her uncertainties were only telling her not to trust Podrick because of his gender; and that was unwise of her. He wasn't like everyone else. He always treated her better than most and she felt shame at not giving him the chance he had proven time and time again that he deserved._

_This wasn't as painful as I imagined, she thought and for once, Sansa was actually feeling less frightened than she had been for the longest time._

_She knew there was more she wanted to say – so much more – and she parted her lips, the words just there on the tip of her tongue—_


	3. Just Like This

**Something Like This**  
written by CelticPixie

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"To be loved and to love, takes courage. To be fully seen is incredibly rare and breathtaking. We lower our masks and see a celestial inner being. It is our full self - the supernova as well as the black holes. Our fears and doubts. Our anger and joy...This is love."  
― **Carolyn Riker, **_**Blue Clouds: A Collection of Soul's Creative Intelligence**_

..

Sansa knew what it meant when she closed that door: she was dismissing the years of manipulation and suffering, of violence and cruelty, of a time when she allowed her personality to darken until she could be as ruthless as Cersei Lannister herself—now, there was only _Sansa Stark_, the Lady of Winterfell… stripped bare in the truly metaphorical sense. It was here she was beginning to feel at peace with herself again.

Closing the door suggested she was allowing herself to _feel_ again. She knew she was leaving herself open, raw and vulnerable, like the day she was born to this world, casting off the shell of the woman she adapted for so long because so many that had broken her before.

Joffrey had been an egotistical, aggressive, malicious, merciless and autocratic ruler who took enormous pleasure in the agony of others. He had gone as far as joyously speculating serving Sansa her brother's head at their own wedding feast. He willingly took advantage of the misplaced trust she had in him because of her innocence, her belief that he had been a kind and gentle prince. He once had her brought before the whole court where he had threatened to kill her. Instead, it was on his orders that Sir Meryn Trant stripped her down and beat her. When he cast her aside in favor of marriage to Margaery Tyrell, she feigned her sorrow when in reality, Sansa could hardly conceal her excitement.

Ramsey Bolton was the definition of a genuine sociopath, the personification of pure evil with no repentance for his actions and no redeemable features. He was dishonorable, manipulative, ruthless, sadistic—more so than Joffrey Baratheon, who took a much more passive role while Ramsey enjoyed inflicting as much pain and degradation as possible. He had raped Sansa on their wedding night, forcing Theon—then known as Reek—to watch; the smallest hint of anger brushing across Theon's face. Over the next few days, the same would continue. She once tried to escape him, but Ramsey had been informed of her plans and as punishment, flayed her elderly maid alive and forced her to look upon the corpse. It reminded Sansa of the time Joffrey had Ned killed and she was made to look upon her father's decapitated head. She took pleasure when he finally met his comeuppance; she walked off with the slightest smile, his screams echoing as the hounds ripped his flesh.

The true manipulator in all of this was Petyr Baelish. First with integrating himself into Jon Arryn's services as a customs officer, and then as Master of Coin. He made good use of the brothels he owned; agents would spy on and manipulate clientele for his pleasure. He would always use his past friendship with Catelyn Stark against her, continuing to make her believe he was a trustworthy friend at court. It was because of him that everything happened. It was just as he said—chaos; _Chaos isn't a pit. Chaos is a ladder. Many who try to climb it fail, and never get to try again. The fall breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb, but refuse. They cling to the realm, or the gods, or love... illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is._

Petyr Baelish was the one to convince Lysa Arryn to poison her husband, to write a letter to her sister in the north, claiming it was the Lannisters who killed Jon. He was the puppet, the original orchestrating the entire War of the Five Kings. He tried and failed to manipulate Bran, so he set his sights on destroying the relationship between the Stark sisters—beginning with Arya. This proved to be a turning point, a downfall for Lord Baelish. Once Sansa learned of his ultimate guilt in the War that started everything, she knew enough. Though Arya was later brought to trial to face charges of murder and treason, it was Petyr Baelish who was on trial instead. This move caught the man off-guard. He begged, he pleaded, but in the end, Arya took a Valyrian steel dagger to his throat and Sansa watched as his blood pooled onto the floor.

Even before justice had finally caught up to him, Sansa knew the moment Baelish dragged Brienne's name into the mix, it spelt trouble for the sworn sword. This was not something she could allow. The morning Maester Wolkan approached Sansa, informing her of a letter received from Cersei in King's Landing, her gut had twisted; Cersei was calling her to a gathering and Sansa thought it to be some kind of trap. Feeling in her bones that Baelish meant to attempt to use Brienne in some way – worse yet, _Podrick_ – she thought that by sending Brienne to King's Landing in her stead, Sansa was protecting them _both_.

It wasn't her desire to ride for King's Landing. And for what, anyway—a gathering with Cersei Lannister? That's what was in the letter brought by raven said. But the letter called for Sansa to attend, not Brienne. The Lady of Tarth made that clear; _They invited you. They want you there_, she argued. But to counter, the Lady of Winterfell claimed she would not step foot in King's Landing, not while Cersei Lannister was still wearing the crown. She'd stayed in the north where she belonged; there was much work to still be done.

Brienne was obstinate; one of her many faults, so she's been told- _It's not safe,_ she persisted. The message was unclear to which the Lady of Tarth was referring to; not safe for Sansa to travel to King's Landing or not safe for her to remain here in Winterfell without the protection of her sworn sword? Brienne didn't exactly trust either option; Cersei Lannister detested Sansa or then there was Littlefinger—_gods_, even the name put a bad taste in Brienne's mouth.

No, probably not but then, Sansa knew there was no reason for Brienne to be fearful of anything—not when she knew of someone present at this gathering, someone she knew was quite dear in heart and spirit to her sworn sword. _Well, Ser Jaime will be there, _and when she turned, she almost smiled just then; there are certain things that didn't go unnoticed, like the way the corners of Brienne's lips twitched when Sansa brought up Jaime's name, or the flicker of light that danced in her sapphire blue eyes- _You always said he treated you honorably. __That he did; she wasn't concerned about Jaime._

Brienne suggested leaving Podrick behind, a prospect Sansa did not take kindly to. She had rounded on her sworn sword, speaking to her with a raised voice even she didn't think she was capable of. Either of out fear for his safety or annoyance, she made herself quite clear; _I do not need to be watched over or minded or cared for_, she had snapped, and the anger was out before she could think rationally, _I'm not a child._ _I am the Lady of Winterfell and I am home_. It was too late to recoil. Too late to apologize. If saving Brienne and Podrick meant being harsh with a woman who had protected her far better than most, than Sansa would manage.

Seeing Podrick alive and well brought warm feelings to her heart. Upon his return to Winterfell, she considered abandoned all forms of proper etiquette so she could embrace him and bask in the warmth of his body. Seeing him alive and breathing was all she wanted; sending him away had been worth it.

Now he was in her quarters. To be technical, they weren't _hers_ to begin with. But for now, they were. This was not the protocol. Nothing about this was proper. And she avoided eye contact the moment she invited him inside. Sansa knew what she was doing, though she didn't know what might happen. Podrick wasn't like Joffrey or even Ramsey; he wouldn't take advantage of her when there was none to give. Whatever silence passed between them was only softened by their evened breathing tones. Water. She needed water. Sansa thanked the Old Gods for the decanter she found waiting for her on a small table by the opened window. She poured herself a glass and offered the same to Podrick. The pair then stood in silence once again. She never thought she was ever be as thankful for the nightly breeze as she was then; the cool her skin, warmed with intense heat whenever she caught herself looking at _him_ for more than a second.

It was Podrick who spoke first, unsettled by the reticence; "Three years… " _…three years, seven months, and fourteen days_… that long since either of them had seen the other. He stared at her for as long as it took for him to breathe next, and then he was looking at the rim of his water goblet; the breeze at his back tickled the tiny prickles of hair on the back of his neck.

"Yes, three years…" She was nodding, _three years __**too**__ long_; "…and… it looks like we have both done well for ourselves in that time, _Ser_ Podrick Payne—" he looked up as she spoke about him, putting emphasis on his knightly title.

"… it took time to adjust."

"But, you have adjusted."

"I have."

Following Ser Brienne's appointment as Lady Commander, she had called for her loyal squire; Podrick obeyed, willingly, because whenever she called—he answered, without question.

_You want to be a knight, Pod?_

He had nodded once, when she asked him, although she couldn't have knight him… not then… so they trained with the sword and he learned quickly.

Brienne wanted him as a knight in the Kingsguard. Podrick was flattered… but he was not yet a knight. _Kneel_, she had said. With his heart pumping, he bent a knee… and she raised her sword—Oathkeeper, as she called it. Podrick had a hard time keeping her gaze. So he focused elsewhere.

…_In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave… _Brienne's sword crossed his shoulders… _In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just… _Podrick tried to focus his breathing, his blood singing within the veins running his arms and neck… _In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent… _as the sword crossed to his other shoulder, his heartbeat thrummed in his ears; he could feel it, pounding away in his chest…

And finally….

_Arise, Ser Podrick… a knight of the Seven Kingdoms…_

He knelt as a squire but stood as a knight, just as he wanted. But his jubilation of all he had accomplished still felt empty in some way. For when he accepted his position and knighthood, it was Sansa's face that came to mind.

And it was Sansa who said to him—"You never wrote me…"

For three long years, he went without word, and he had not sent word to her. Nothing. He wanted to. Every time he sat with paper and quill to write; nothing came of it. There was so much he wanted to say to her yet could never formulate words adequate enough—and so he didn't.

Podrick gulped down the rest of his water.

"…I meant to."

"Why didn't you?"

In three years, Sansa had heard from Brienne, from Jon… even Daenerys and Samwell—but not one word from Podrick; she had considered the possibility that he had forgotten her completely.

Shaking his head, he said, "…I—I guess… I just didn't know what to say… " _There is so much I wanted to say to you, so much I still want to say… but it doesn't matter. You are a Queen and I—_ "… I should have."

Sansa sighed; "I was… lonely…" _No, wait, this isn't right; this is improper…_

"How could the Queen of the North ever be lonely?" Podrick blinked, finding it hard to fathom a woman such as Sansa Stark being lonely. Perhaps… maybe, there was much more than he knew. She had been looking at him just then, almost a dull numbness to her eyes. "I mean… well… I don't know _how_ you felt. It was wrong of me to assume. Forgive me…."

"You are right to assume… " Sansa sighed; she was not feeling quite herself. But if she had been at all worried about propriety, she wouldn't have invited him inside. "… no one would have thought I could be lonely, the Queen of the North, but… I have been the loneliest I ever thought I could be. Jon… he is King of the Six Kingdoms… Bran, is here… and I haven't heard from Arya for many moons—my family, people I love… "

Podrick crossed over to where she stood long before his subconscious had caught up to him. It hadn't dawned on him how close they were standing—within inches of each other—but he was consciously aware how his breathing rate had changed.

"… I didn't know. Forgive me."

"You have done nothing wrong worth forgiving…"

Podrick had sighed again, his breathing hitching in his chest even before he exhaled. "I didn't write to you because… because I was afraid," he admitted; _there it is_, he thought, _the truth_. He waited, he watched… he watched as Sansa's eyes drifted until they were completely focused on him, and all he could do was gaze deeply, milking the calming blue waters.

"There is no need to be."

"…if only I could be honest…" Here was a boy… standing in front of a girl… and there was so much he wanted to say to her, so many untold secrets kept inside his heart.

A hand reached out, taking his, "… then _be_ honest…"

"I… Sansa—"

The code of a knight states that they must defend the weak and the innocent, protect women and children, fight fairly and honorably, obey their lieges… some fighting for romantic reasons while others were more interested in money… and Podrick had always drempt of being the knight who rescued princesses and fair maidens, with little to zero thought of reward. He wanted to fight for honor.

Standing in front of Sansa Stark, he truly realized one thing; he wanted to fight for_ her_.

_Be honest_.

Okay.

Podrick never was the greatest wordsmith. He was no poetic. No songwriter. But what he lacked in words, he made up for in actions. Sansa begged of him to be honest? Alright.

He took a breath…

….prayed for strength…

…and kissed her.


	4. Behind These Walls

**Behind These Walls**  
written by Celtic Pixie

..

"Sometimes, reaching out and taking someone's hand is the beginning of a journey. At other times, it is allowing another to take yours."  
― **Vera Nazarian, ****The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration**

..

There had been a time, quite long ago it seemed, when Sansa put forth more attention into emulating her mother's example of a properly lady from the southern courts, becoming committed to the customary ideals of womanly qualities. This was a sharp contrast to the far less idealistic and tomboyish nature of her sister, Arya, often causing friction between the siblings, culminating in something of a sibling rivalry. Unlike her sister, Sansa was much more passive, always waiting for things to happen rather than taking vigorous measures. Where Arya preferred the more tomboyish lifestyle, Sansa was about fair maidens, heroic knights, and mythical figures..

..mythical figures like Jonquil – a heroine of legend known for falling in love with a knight named Florian. As the story goes, Florian first spied Jonquil as she bathed with her sisters in a pool located in the town of Maidenpool. There were songs written for them: _Six Maids in a Pool_ could be one, which Sansa knew by heart; she offered to sing it for Sandor Clegane once, but he declined. Jon Snow and Robb Stark would often pretend to be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and Florian the Fool, respectively as children, and young Sansa would be the princess to rescue.

She was also very much into other historical figures…such as Duncan Targaryen, also known as the Prince of Dragonflies, was another fascination of Sansa's. He was the eldest son and heir of King Aegon V Targaryen and named for Ser Duncan the Tall. He once fell in love with a woman simply known as Jenny of Oldstones and it was said that he loved her so much, her surrendered his crown and married her against his father's wishes. This had created friction since he had been betrothed to Lyonel Baratheon's daughter. He had been angered by the event, briefly renouncing his allegiance to the iron Throne. The rebellion was brief. In the end, he had been defeated in battle by Ser Duncan the Tall.

There were many songs written about Jenny, most famously _Jenny's song, _which was always a request of the ghost of High Heart as payment in exchange for telling the brotherhood without banners of her prophetic dream. It is said that Jenny had been a queer and lovely girl who always wore flowers in her hair, though she was considered half-mad peasant with some calling her a witch. According to the song, she would dance with ghosts in the halls of kings.

Sansa didn't sing. Not anymore. That childlike innocence _could _be buried, somewhere deep deep down, or simply forgotten. There had been naught tales of fair maidens or heroic knights or courtly princes to bring her solace and she had since dismissed the idea of there every being one.

But then there was Podrick; sweet, sweet Podrick, who would never ever hurt anyone. A man who seemed to bear no one ill-will or malice and who was only ever kind and gentle to those around him. Dear sweet Podrick…he deserved someone who would never take advantage of his good nature. In many ways, he was far too innocent for this world. Sansa envied him.

_Kissing_ him had sent her heart ablaze. A sudden, unexpected feeling. Leaving her warm and feverish. Her lips were shaking, sending tremors through her entire nervous system. A tingle cascaded down her spine, evoking a sensation within her she had no idea she was capable of feeling. Sansa was feeling quite dizzy and the only thing she could do to keep herself steady was cling onto him. He had drawn her toward him, inclining his head and breathing her in. Sansa felt the hollow urgency of vulnerability, the sinking feeling that left her stripped bear of all and every barrier ever constructed to protect her heart.

Podrick intensified the kiss, pushing against her, bending her head back, then swiftly graduated to throwing his arms around her shoulders. But a kiss wasn't just about the physical aspect; it was about the relationship and what was going through their minds at the time. It was about the pure emotion exploding inside. To Podrick, and to Sansa, it was an unrestricted invitation to look into the others' souls. Such a softness, such a sweetness. It was as though the only two souls in the world were him and her and nothing else mattered.

When Podrick pulled gradually from her, she was groaning, desperate to have his lips on her again. His mouth stretched to a smile. He leaned forwards, pressing their noses together. He inhaled her scent; she smelt like the beach, of a fragrant lavender plucked from the garden. "You should not have stopped …" She pleaded, breathless, hungerly needing to be kissed like that again.

His eyelids closed; his forehead pressed to hers; "We—I…I should be getting back… " His mouth was saying one thing, but his brain was screaming another. His fingers delicately danced over the rim of her dress, casually brushed over any exposed flesh, raising goosebumps that prickled her skin.

But she had other ideas. "Stay. Stay here…" _Stay with me. I __**need**__ you… _

For the first time in a very, very long while, Sansa knew _exactly_ what she wanted. What she _needed_. Just a taste had left her hungry for more. She had never felt so alive, so vigorously full of life…

_I—I want to… Gods, I would want for nothing else…_

"…Podrick," she inhaled, breathing deep; it shuddered beneath her breasts. In her next breath, words had tumbled from her mouth before she had control over them; "I want you… " Her heart was beating hard, and harder, and she knew there was no logic where her emotions were concerned—not anymore. "…please… make love to me…"

He blinked rapidly, unsure what he heard; "Sansa, my _lady_…"

Sansa moved her hands behind her, arched her fingers until they brushed over where his lay. They pressed against his, ever so slightly flexing across them. She was teasing him. He knew it. She had him tugging at the laces at her gown—first the surcote, and then the kirtle underneath, until there was nothing left by the chemise beneath. Podrick took a breath, allowing his eyes to soak in the woman standing before him. She found his eyes. Her chest moved rapidly—in and out—and her heart was thrashing wildly. Slowly, as Sansa was finding her breathing, she reached behind her to remove the pins from her hair.

After shaking out her hair, Sansa reached for the buckles holding Podrick's armor in place. Time in which it took to remove these buckles, and the straps, and all else involved had no meaning. She didn't think about it. What she only thought about was getting him out of them. Once he was, once they _both _stood in front of the other wearing little more than shifts meant to wore beneath their clothing, Sansa paused. She was very much aware that it was Podrick she stood in front of and the other thing separate their bodies were thin, barely concealing fabrics of clothes. But she took him in. All of him.

He closed a gap between them until scarcely a light could be seen through the space between their bodies. Reaching, Podrick removed the last of the laces holding up her chemise. It pooled at her feet. This time when he was kissing her again, she completely and wholly gave into his _hunger_—his desire… for she felt it too. This time, they attacked each other with a furiousity neither had ever been introduced to before. With Joffrey, it was only ever torture and torment. And Tyrion would not lay with her, not until she wanted him in her bed. He never touched her. He was always so kind, so gentle. When Ramsey had taken her, it wasn't loving or gentle or passionate; he didn't appreciate her or worship her. He never _touched_ her… not in the way Podrick was.

Sansa pushed her fingers through his hair, kissing him with such passion and intensity. He worked his hands beneath her breast coverings until he had fidgeted with them enough for them to drop from her chest, leaving her completely exposed. Podrick tore his mouth away from her lips and found the mounds of her breasts. Sansa had started groaning, getting herself accustomed to having _him_ kissing her _there_. No one had ever paid such attention to her bosom before. Throwing her head back, her lips parted. _Oh… my… Gods! _She nearly came undone when his tongue lapped over her nipples.

Sansa gripped the back of his neck; "_Gods!_ Podrick…. " She couldn't speak. The way his mouth eagerly made love to her breasts in turn was doing some ungodly things to her core. She was hissing swears of surprise. Her underpants soaked with her arousal.

She threw her arms and legs around him as he lifted her up and slowly cared her to the bed, his mouth not once leaving her breasts. He laid her down carefully, positioned himself atop her, then _finally_ broke from making love to her nipples so he could once again capture her lips in a firey, fervent kiss. He somehow managed to work his hands between their bodies. His right hand traversed the length of her torso, skipping delicately over her belly. Further, further, and further down his hand went… until, at last, he was pushed it beneath the thin fold that protected her womanhood.

Carefully, meticulously, he _slowly_ pushed a finger inside of her, and another rubbed at the bud, like a rose, being ever so gently caressed. Sansa was moaning all manner of things. His finger twitched, beginning its slow and melodical movements inside her. His lips had skipped over her face, kissing each and every delicate highlight in turn. She attempted to follow, to capture his mouth so she might kiss it again, but his lips were very elusive to her desires. Podrick continued to fondle her, pushing his finger further, and then retracting… _slowly_… and then deeper again… until a second had joined; Sansa was seeing stars. She was moving restlessly beneath him. Darkness was closing in. A tingling entrapped her limbs. When she came, he was sure to keep pace as wave after wave of pleasure pulsed through her.

At long last, Podrick retracted his fingers and dipped his head low. His lips skipped past her neck, over the mounds of her breasts, down the length of her torso… and stopped just before hitting her core. He took a moment, breathing in the sent of her arousal, and then pushed past the cumbersome fabric. His tongue had found her center. He drew circles there, the lightest of touches, yet evoking the greatest of pleasures. Sansa was sure she would come undone again at that very moment. The pressure inside her was something else. Exquisite. Instead of his tongue plunging between her folds, Podrick tugged the fabric away, carelessly tossing it aside. Then he raised up, crawling closer to where he started—hovering over her.

Sansa reached past his hips where she tugged at the lacing of his garment. Her hands work themselves between the fabric, pushing it away from his hips. She scooched down some so she might be able to continue working the fabric down his legs. Her body quickly recoiled. Podrick captured her eyes, her endlessly enrapturing blue eyes he could find himself getting lost in for days on end.

Her chest exploded with such focused heat just then, as they stared so attentively at each other. Their stare was longing, full of desire, panting with burning, unresolved passion. She cupped a hand beneath his jaw; "I am not afraid… " she whispered, breathless, self-assured. Sansa seemed to know what she had been asking, lest this be a foolish mistake, one she'd regret come the morrow. This was a decision she made, to be with him, fully and completely.

Podrick pressed himself against her, so she could feel him, but not yet all of him. With a singular thrust, he was inside her. He pushed, slowly, gently, at first —his mouth absorbed her cries and for a moment, he was worried he had hurt her. Podrick gave her time, allowing her to get adjusted and comfortable until he was almost completely buried within her.

The peak of her core tingled, ignited with raw heat and absolute intensity; "Oh, _gods_…" Her entire body was shaking.

He pressed a kiss to her lips before his first thrust. His movements had been gradual at first, allowing Sansa to get familiar with him. She arched her back, pushing her breasts against his chest. Her hands fumbled. They began exploring every inch of him; his jaw, his shoulder blades, pressed against his back. Her nails dragged across his skin, arousing a trembling moan that started somewhere deep within his core and bubbled quickly to his surface.

She pressed her palms tight to his skin, whimpering lowly when his mouth no longer gave praise to hers. Instead, Podrick was kissing away from her mouth- curling his motions over her cheek bones, then down her jawline, and across her neck, suckling at the area where the artery that gushed her life force ran the full length of her neck and pulsated rapidly beneath the weight of his lips.

Hands roamed each other's bodies; Sansa eventually discovered the small of his back…pressing them against his warm flesh. His lips drifted from her mouth, leaving her with emptiness, but found her neck and began kissing her there. His tongue fell from his mouth, licking and lapping at each part of it. Sansa's head fell back. Her hands pulled from his back until they were pushing through his hair again, entwining themselves. His kisses found the underside of her jaw, then traversed the area of her mouth, pressing the corners but never her lips, and then eventually to her eyelids and forehead.

Sansa reached for him. Grasped his head. She drew him up… away… until they could look into each other's eyes, and she could once again get lost in them. Something within him had been unearthed. Something primal. He could hardly breathe. He was only thinking of her, this moment, being so wholly wrapped up inside of her. He rasped her name, almost in a breathless whisper. His breath was warm and sweet on her skin. When she reached for him again, Podrick stretched her arms above her whilst tracing kisses on the underside of each one. He rocked forwards, thrusting his whole self into her body, his cock twitching, pulsing; the darkness was back. She timed her second climax perfectly, with him still nestled inside her.

He hadn't withdrawn. His movements still. Still very much firm inside her, Sansa was begging him for more. She squeeze him from within. She was still in the midst of her ecstasy, wave after wave of pure pleasure. Eventually, he began thrusting into her, more smoothly and matched with equal power. Podrick felt it—the burning, rippling sensation that told him he was close. He began to withdraw from her, leaving her moaning, aching, crying for him not to. _No!_ She needed him inside. She needed to feel him. All of him. Sansa's hands found his backside, they pinched him, drawing him back.

She had pressed tight to him. When his release came, he was still cradled between her thighs. They had kissed quite often during this time, distracting him from twitching. Sansa came to hold his head down by hers until he had finally relaxed, completely spent. He was breathing hard, trying to get himself down from such a high. Podrick would eventually roll away from her, withdrawing himself from between her thighs. He laid on his back, his chest moving rapidly, in and out, almost completely incapable of calming himself.

Sansa moved onto her side, her hands reaching to explore him. _Gods, woman… _but she hadn't climbed him. Instead, her fingers were drawing circles over his chest until her palm rested flat. Podrick turned his head, looked at her, and smiled. "This… it is all for you… " His larger hand encircled hers, holding it there over his heart. He wanted her to feel it thumping; the unyielding, raw power. "Do you know what it says?" Sansa had shaken her head. "It says how much I love you. I have always loved you, Sansa, ever since we were young, but I was always too unsure, too _scared_." Podrick didn't think it was ever possible to feel this blissful. Tears were in his eyes, tears that eventually spilled down the sides of his face.

She removed her hand from his chest to brush his tears; "I was naïve once to believe I could be the princess to a ruthless prince, and foolish enough to think Ramsey could show me love." He grasped her hand, kissing him. "But you have shown me _true_ love. I was so blinded before. But it was you, should have been you, all this time. My father was right: he would find me someone brave and gentle and strong. I… I don't know why it took me so long to admit that…"

"We were both scared, I think," he answered, "and you were the daughter of a noble lord; I was just a squire. Even if I wanted to, I could never have hoped to earn your favor. Me, the son of a man I've never met, who squired first richer cousins, until one day he fell in the Greyjoy Rebellion, and a chandelier's daughter, who abandoned her only child when he was four because some nobody got a child on her— it doesn't spell epic romance for someone so deserving of much more than I could ever give you."

Sighing heavily, Sansa shifted to her right side. "Every single thing in my life that's happened has been some decision of someone else. Never me. I was foolish to think I could have been happy before." Her hand rested on his shoulder. "I decided to fight for the North's independence because that is my _home_ and I'll be damned if I will feel the weight of someone else making decisions for me." She cuddled up closer, nuzzling her naked body against his. "No one else is making another decision for me. Not today. Not any day. It shouldn't have taken so long to realize what I _needed_ this whole time…"

"Sansa…" His body shifted, turning to face her; her eyes sparkled, swimming with unadulterated love; "…there is a life waiting for you in Winterfell. You are their queen. What could a Knight do for you?"

"Everything." Tears prickled her eyes; suddenly Podrick's heart had dropped to his stomach. "We have only ever before served others. We should be selfish for once. We _need_ to be.."

In two days hence, this whirlwind romance would have to draw to a close. They would have to return to their own lives, no matter how much of a hole it would leave behind.

_Let me be selfish._


	5. Secrets That We Keep

**Secrets That We Keep**  
written by Celtic Pixie

..

"Your visions will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams, who looks inside, awakes."  
― **C.G. Jung**

..

Sansa awoke long after the sun crested over the mountains, casting a warm amber tinge over her face as vibrant rays of light streak in through the open window. Her eyes were still twitching behind closed lids, abandoned in a fictional world in which she didn't need to be concerned with rules or obligation; where she could simply be _Sansa Stark_, not Her Grace, not My Lady—just Sansa; a world in which her Lady Catelyn and Lord Eddard Stark still lived, and her family was still together in Winterfell. Eventually, there would come a moment where she would always have to wake, and those dreams would always be _just_ that.

She yawned, stretching her arms above her head until her fingers scarcely brushed the headboard. Something felt… _off_. While King's Landing was normally so warm, she was feeling quite _cold_. There was a strange absence of body heat she knew had been there the night before. Sansa's eyes fluttered open, expecting to see a second body sleeping besides her. But, there was nothing; empty. Yet while the space next to her lacked a body, resting on the pillow was a dark red gillyflower. Sansa bolted upright and reached for it. She brought the flower to her nose, taking in a whiff of the perfume smell.

Sansa swung her legs from the bed. She grabbed a robe draped precariously over the back of a chair and threw it over her shoulders. A small plate of breakfast had been left for her—milk and cream, honey, a few grapes, pieces of bacon, and a small loaf of bread. She snatched a piece of bacon but before she could slice into the bread, there arose a heavy uproar coming from somewhere outside her balcony. Jerking at her robe, Sansa strode out onto the terrace and looked out over the edge. Somewhere down below her was a group—the City Watch, also known as the gold cloaks. While the Kingsguard were sworn to obey the king, the City Watch were defenders over the city inside—including the Red Keep—and the enforcers of the law, sworn only to the Iron Throne.

From behind her came a knock on her door; "Enter!" She called out, and she quickly stepped away from the balcony, tugging tightly at her robe.

In walked a handmaiden dressed in a thin flowery gown. A handmaiden, or handmaid, was a woman in service of a noblewoman of higher status. The tasks of a handmaiden varied depending on their origin. The woman assigned to Sansa was fare in face, likely not much younger than herself, with bright green eyes and soft brown curls. Beneath each of her eyes were dozens of freckles.

"What is the hour?" Sansa would ask.

The handmaiden curtsied; "It is almost midday, your grace," the younger woman answered, then rose from her curtsy and set about her chores.

_Midday!_ She was thinking; _How could I allow myself to sleep for so long?!_

Sansa would never have allowed such indulgence. She would have been awake long before now, going about her daily routine as normal. Her mental berating was brief. At that moment, it was Podrick's face that came to mind and a reasoning why she hadn't woken until now. Her thoughts took her to the aforementioned night—_oh_, the things he had done to her body; it produced a smile, however fleeting.

Sansa had looked away. Still clutched in her right hand was the gillyflower left on her pillow. She held it close enough to her chest and shut her eyes, eliciting a distant memory. The flower's scent had triggered something, something from her youth, of a moment where she was feeling the most vulnerable and _someone_ had shown her a great kindness. She must have forgotten about that; then again, so many things had been.

_However cordial she and Tyrion had been, the developing relationship had taken a crushing blow when news of Robb and Catelyn's death at the Red Wedding reached King's Landing, and Sansa. It had been an event orchestrated by Tyrion's father, Tywin Lannister. Sansa remained dejected for some time, hardly eating a meal despite encouragement from both Shae and Tyrion. Nightmares plagued her every night. Sansa would lay awake each and every night as of late, all the while thinking of her brother and mother, how Robb's body was desecrated, how her mother's throat was slit to the bone and her body discarded into the river like garbage._

_Sansa excused herself from the table, telling Tyrion she was going to the Godswood for solitude since it was the only place she could be alone with no one bothering her. She wasn't going there for prayer, as she often did before, as Tyrion had suggested it might be good for her—she no longer prayed to the same gods as her mother had done, or to any god. _

_There was something… something she hadn't expected… waiting for her, a gift, of sorts. Laying precariously atop a rock by the sea was a light red gillyflower. Sansa stared, astonished. She looked around her, expecting someone to be standing in the bushes waiting for her to receive her gift. Well, she received it, but with no notice or idea of who left it for her. She brought it close to her nose and took a whiff, inhaling the flowery perfume scent. _

_Later that evening, Tyrion came to her quarters with a small tray of food—salted pork, some duck sausage, potatoes, and honey cakes. She seemed less morose than before. Sansa told him she had returned to the Keep and laid down for a few hours. A nap seemed to do her some good. She could no longer deny food when her stomach rumbled at the sight. They didn't speak. But when Tyrion pulled out a chair for her, she sat down with a gracious smile._

_He watched her eat, thankful the poor girl wasn't starving herself. While Sansa was having her fill, Tyrion helped himself to a glass of wine. It was then that he noticed the red gillyflower sticking out of a glass vase with a blue hue; "Such a lovely flower," he said, and Sansa looked up, her gaze questioning and curious. Tyrion pointed a finger towards the vase sitting on the mantle. "Is there another admirer I should know about?"_

_She only looked at it briefly before fixing her eyes on her husband; "I assumed it was you who had left it there for me…" But Tyrion's frown, and shake of his head, confused Sansa._

_If he hadn't left the flower, who had?_

This gillyflower in her hand was the same tinge as the one left for her before.

Sansa knew now what she didn't know then—that it was Podrick who left her the gillyflower. Such a kind, gracious gesture at a time she needed the most kindness.

The handmaiden, complete with folding the sheets, now looked at Sansa; "Oh!" She exclaimed quite exuberantly, nearly startling the visiting queen. "Such a _beautiful_ flower, your grace! It is called a gillyflower."

"A what?"

"A gillyflower. It grows along the eastern coast of King's Landing, by the Godswood." The handmaiden stepped away from the bed, approaching Sansa. "They grow in a wide variety of colors including pink, white, red, yellow, purple, and scarlet. And all colors have a different meaning."

"I was oblivious of this." Sansa inspected the flower, eyeing over each of its red pedals. "Different flowers bloom in the North, many of a different kind of beauty…" She admired the gillyflower for a short while before gesturing for the handmaiden to continue; there was a story here she was eager to learn.

"White symbolizes purity and luck, light red symbolizes admiration, pink symbolizes gratitude, yellow of disappointment or rejection, and purple of capriciousness…"

As the handmaiden spoke, Sansa couldn't help but feel a sense of childlike giddiness as if she were being told a spurring tale of adventure and fantasy.

She pointed at her flower, indicating its pedals; it shown in a reddish hue, unlike an average red—almost blood-like. "And…. What of this one? It is a much deeper, darker shade than you spoke of."

"Ah! This one, your grace… this one symbolizes love and affection." The handmaiden flashed a warm smile at Sansa. "It means you have an admirer! Someone loves you. A great prince or a lord, perhaps.."

_Or a knight_, Sansa thought, grinning; but only _her_ heart would know.

The handmaiden dutifully returned to her chores. Sansa tugged at her robe a bit tighter then ambled herself to the small table where the tray of food still sat. She picked at it though maybe only slightly interested. She wasn't particularly hungry this morning.

A knock on her door disturbed her thoughts.

Sansa stepped forwards to grab it, but the handmaiden had gotten there first. Once she opened the door, they both saw that it was King Jon who stood there, dressed in royal garb befitting his title; except, there was a distinct lack of crown. It was too cumbersome when he didn't need it.

The handmaiden curtsied; "Your grace…"

Jon nodded and politely smiled at the young woman. He briefly caught sight of his cousin—thinking of her as such instead of a sister was still somewhat odd to him, since they grew up as siblings, but he was getting used to the idea more and more.

"Rheanya," he spoke, his voice soft, "I wonder if I might have a word with my cousin."

"Of course, your grace."

She curtsied once again, to both of them, before stepping outside to leave them. She wouldn't go far, Jon knew this; she would stay right outside the door until he had need of her.

Focusing on Sansa, Jon took a few steps closer; "I'm happy to see you again, cousin." He was smiling. He was glad this was a time in which they didn't worry about the threat of White Walkers, or of Cersei Lannister; a time in which Jon sat on the throne as the rightful heir, side-by-side with his queen. "Due to the nature of the occasion, I haven't been able to see much of you. And of course, my other duties keep me quite busy. I was hoping we could… talk… like old times…"

Old times. Right. Never mind the fact she was literally _naked_ beneath that thin night robe of hers. Sansa found herself nodding in agreement, despite the fact she should be dressing for the day, which had already worked itself into the afternoon.

Jon closed further distance between them; "Being queen has suited you, I think. I-I apologize for not being at your coronation." He thought back to his own, how nervous and unprepared he felt, but at least he had Daenerys at his side to ease some discomfort.

"There is nothing to apologize for, _your grace_." Hearing it from her own lips felt natural, but saying it in front of Jon, addressing him in a formal title, _did_ still feel somewhat odd.

"Sansa, please," he started, then, "behind these walls, I am simply Jon Snow and you are Sansa Stark. We are family; there is no need for formalities between us."

Despite the mere inch that separated them in height, it did not stop Jon from placing a gentle kiss on Sansa's cheek. He smiled once more. Only then, after a beat, did he notice the gillyflower she still clutched between her fingers.

Sansa was confused by the change in facial expression…until it dawned on her—

But it was Jon, not her, who spoke; "Who is he, dearest cousin? Who is this secret admirer of yours? A nobleman here in this castle perhaps? Someone I have yet to be introduced to…"

Sansa's heart galloped. "He is someone I have treasured dearly for a long time… though it has taken me equally as long to finally realize it…" _Please don't ask me further questions_, she was thinking. As much as she loved her cousin, the thought of keeping her romantic interest a secret was tantalizing.

"You are a woman grown, Sansa. I cannot tell you what you should and should not do. I only ask you to remain vigilant. I do not wish to see you harmed again by those who ought to love you."

"Always."

_Podrick is not Joffrey, and he is not Ramsey; he will not harm me. Not now, not ever._

Jon nodded, seemingly satisfied with her answer. "When will I be acquainted with this nobleman who has robbed your heart so?"

"In due time, Jon."

"Ah, I see." He chuckled; he, too, remembered the days as children when he would play knight to Sansa's princess and all she spoke of was the rescuing of damsels in distresses, and secret loves of princes and princess.

This sounded like one of her fairytales and he was more than happy to indulge her. Doing so meant he got to see a piece of her he thought she buried a long while ago.

Sansa _briefly _looked taken aback; "See what?"

"It is a _secret_ romance. I understand more than most about those. Do not worry yourself, Sansa; I will not tell your secret."

He held a finger to his lips… and then slowly, very slowly, broke out into a fit of merriment. It took Sansa a bit longer to do so but soon enough, the cousins were in the midst of a laugh neither have shared together for such a long time. It felt good to be able to do so.

Eventually, as the cousins recovered from their fit of laughter, Jon added; "You know, sometimes I forget how it feels just to laugh again. To be happy. We've spent so long unhappy that it almost feels—"

"—strange?"

"Yes, strange."

Though born as Aegon Targaryen, he chose to keep his bastard name—Jon Snow—because that was the name he grew up with and that was the name everyone knew him as. After learning the fate of his half-brother, also named Aegon, he didn't feel right using his birth name. He had been raised alongside Eddard Stark's lawful children, his true parentage kept secret from everyone, including himself. He did not learn of this until it was Samwell Tarly who cornered him beneath Winterfell one night, as he was in the catacombs lighting candles in remembrance of his family and spilled the preverbal beans.

Jon didn't _feel_ any different than he was before his true parentage was known to him, and subsequently the rest of the known world. The only thing that changed for him, now, was a crown and a throne. He was finding his new home in King's Landing to be ideal, but he still missed his family—Bran was here, of course, but Sansa remained in Winterfell and their only communication was through letters, no one had heard from Arya… Robb and Rickon, Gods rest their souls, and then there was Theon….

Theon wasn't a trueborn Stark… but he was close enough to a brother as his blood cousins had been to him. On a deeper level, Jon was missing Theon more than enough now. He had forgiven Theon for all of his transgressions, as it had been in his heart to do so after seeing Sansa warming up to him again. It burned a hole in him when he had to watch his cousin burn Theon's body and watch the depressing look befall her face.

Sighing, Jon reached for Sansa's hand and gave it a squeeze. "I do love you, Sansa. Do not forget that."

"I would never."

Jon kissed her knuckles. "Join the Dany and I for dinner tonight would you? It is your last night here. I wish to spend it with my dear cousin."

As it had done in the past, Podrick's face came to mind. _My last night here… I ought to make it amount for something…_

"I would be delighted to."

There was a moment's pause between them, before Sansa took visual note she was still only wrapped up in nothing but a silk robe. Clearing her throat, she asked, "Um, might I get myself dressed now?"

"Oh, of course." The maid was called back in. "I'll come for you later."

Sansa nodded as he left.

~.~.~.~.~

Tonight's meal was abundant in flavor and color, the likes of which Sansa hadn't seen in an age: salted pork, duck sausages, lamprey pie—a meat pie made from eel-like fish known as lampreys—sour cherries, lemon cakes—her favorite—and custard. Being away from King's Landing for so long had made her nearly forget the different ways in which the Southrons would dine when compared to those in the Northern regions.

Due in part to the arctic climate of the North, agriculture is more challenging to cultivate than it is in the southron parts of Westeros, and the Northern lords are significantly less wealthy than their southron counterparts. Because of these factors, food in the North was predominantly centered on meats—fish, fowl, etc.—and the occasional root vegetables, certain hardy fruits, nuts, and maybe some berries. Their meals were not on the same level or magnitude as the nobles in the Westerlands, or King's Landing.

In the southern territories, where agriculture is much easier, fruits and vegetables are a much bigger element in the regional cuisines. Food was generally prepared in various ways, depending on the house, but usually fairly elaborate: cream, sugar, and pastries were patterned into whimsical shapes. King's Landing was much more sumptuous, enjoying the exotic fruits—blackberries, crabapples, lemons, plums, cherries, etc.—yet still offered a flavoring of meats and fish, particularly shellfish. Diversity was easily more prominent; meals were often served in multiple courses and were often made with exotic ingredients.

Sansa's stomach growled at such a lavish selection. She didn't know where to start. She looked to where Jon sat, and Daenerys right next to him—both in deep conversation. Asking for their opinion seemed like a moot point. Someone, she assumed one of the castle servants, walked up and suggested the lamprey pie. Sansa gazed it, as if sizing it up first, before she latched onto the idea. The servant served her a slice, and she helped herself to some sour cherries and a couple lemon cakes. She nodded her thanks to the servant who bowed gracefully and took a step back.

She picked at her lamprey pie. It was flavorful enough, but she was sidetracked. Too much so, perhaps, to truly get a taste for it.

Just as her thoughts drifted to home, a new diversion entered. One she hadn't even realized until it was Daenerys that called for him: _Ser Podrick!_ And suddenly, Sansa was aware just how fast her chest was pounding. He waltzed in, bringing with him a decanter of red wine. The moment the pair saw each other, she could swear she had forgotten how to breathe. Had the room dropped a few degrees? She felt chilled, like something had crawled up her spine. And Podrick… as try as he might to not look at her-there were definitely glances.

Subtly clearing her throat, Sansa returned to staring at her food, putting herself in the mindset that this was somehow much more appeasing than knowing Podrick was standing just a few feet from her. He poured a small amount of Arbor red into Daenerys' chalice as she held out towards him – _thank you_, she added – and he did the same for Jon. By the time he reached to where Sansa was sitting, she had to forcefully bite her bottom lip and avoid his eye contact. Jon and Daenerys had no clue… nor would they.

Podrick queried; "Some wine, your grace?" And it was the tone in his voice that had her knees nearly shaking beneath the table. She quietly thanked the Gods for the thick pleaded dress she wore.

There held a pregnant pause between them, in which she could swear her body temperature had risen a few degrees. Her cheeks felted heated as blood pulsed beneath flesh.

She remembered the gillyflower found on her pillow this morning, notably the coloring. _Dark red_; to articulate the profound sentiment of love and affection. She knew it had been Podrick who left her the flower…just as she was so sure in her heart that it had been the same man—then just a young teenager, like herself—whose light red gillyflower had been left for her those years ago.

Sansa didn't quite catch herself in time, however, when they made the briefest of eye contact and he offered up a momentarily virtuous smile.

Suddenly remembering her manners, she held out her chalice and merrily accepted the wine; "Thank you…Ser Podrick," and immediately took to sipping the alcohol as she subsequently removed her eyes from his face.

She thoroughly enjoyed the taste of it as the liquid dripped down the back of her throat. As a child growing up, her father would rarely allow her more than one or two sips at feast. She grew more accustomed to wine once she was in King's Landing where there was more of it to go around.

The grapes for wine making never grow further than the Riverlands, and they're often small and tart, though make drinkable wine; however, not the best of quality, either. Those wines come from the warmer fields of the Reach, in particular from the island of the Arbor where many wines are produced yet the best of which is arguably the Arbor gold—rich and fruity in its flavor. Ale is also fairly common in the south whereas "black beer"—likely another name for lager—was more common in the North. The black beer produced in White Harbor was in particular high quality, some people paying almost as much for it as imported wines.

Sansa didn't care for the black beer from White Harbor; wine was much more delectable to her tastes. As a girl, she was only permitted a single cup at feasts, but she had since allowed herself to indulge more.

Tonight, she might be needing quite a few more… depending how things went.

She kept glancing up from her plate, shooting the sporadic look at Jon and Daenerys, seeing if they were paying attention, then stole a look at the handsome knight standing to the right of the dragon queen. He remained as stoic as ever, though she swore she could nearly see the crease of a smile on his mouth.

_Podrick had woken just shy of dawn, as was his normality._

_In just a few moments, he would be rolling himself from bed, dressing in his Kingsguard attire, and grooming himself for the day._

_Not yet._

_Looking at Sansa—the way she slept, the way her hair pillowed under her head, the steady sound of her breathing…_

_So entranced with her beauty, Podrick leaned over and pressed his lips to her brow. This sudden yet gentle movement had woken her. He hadn't meant to. But when she was opened her eyes and she was staring at him, he couldn't help but be in love with her more. He took the perfect opportunity to capture her voluptuous lips. She responded, in kind. Her hand palmed the side of his face, her fingers gently stroking his skin._

_Podrick was silent, allowing his breathing, and hers, to be the only sounds in the room, until it was her head that lolled into the crook of his neck, and it was his flesh she was kissing, and—oh! That spot, right there… where his jugular met with his left collar bone. _

_He was groaning._

_The back of his hand caressed her shoulder blade, and then her shoulder, and her arm, until his entire hand was palming her breast. Now it was Sansa's turn to groan. And groan she did._

_Her kisses traversed his collar bone, and then laterally up, up, and up his neck, past his jawline, until their mouths took possession of each other. _

_They locked themselves in a firey passion for what seemed like a good while, until Podrick moved away from making love to her mouth – Sansa whined for the sudden absence of his hot breath against hers – and inched his way down her body at every angle; her long neck, her collar bone, her breasts – his tongue lapping at each of her nipples – and further, further down until—Oh by the Seven! Sansa squirmed; Podrick's mouth had found her clit, moist and damp and wanting with pleasure._

_His tongue flickered out, slurping from the wet cavern between her legs. She hissed. Her hands rested on his shoulders. They gave him a tight squeeze the more his tongue pleasured her. Her body was shaking. Podrick's tongue flickered upwards again, causing such an eruption of jubilation from Brienne's mouth. She… she was getting close. Her body was arching. _

"_Oh, oh, oh, P-Podrick… I—" _

_And then she did, and she had pushed her hands hard against his shoulders as he milked her, until she was spent, and slowly coming down from her ecstasy._

_He crawled over her, eased her thighs apart with his right knee, and pushed between them. The tip of him only teased at her entrance, tugging a peppered cry from her throat. Sansa's hips bucked to meet him. Her hands cupped his arse, giving it a tight squeeze. When he moved, he moved fast, thrusting hard, deep, and without hesitation. _

_Podrick wiggled his body until he pushed a hand between them. Sansa was crying his name when his fingers found her clit again, and then smoothed over the nub amid her folds._

_He stared at her face, mapped her sapphire eyes, drank in the visionary goddess laying beneath him. She was panting hard, her chest heaving, as was his. His fingers moved quickly, teasing her relentlessly, as his cock throbbing and ached and pumped inside her of again, and again, and again… each thrust faster and more desperate than the one before it._

_Podrick's hand eventually slipped from her clit – Sansa moaned, "Please, Podrick, please… "; he smiled, delighted to be hearing his name said like that. His thrusting was more diligent, more charitable, and she drank it up. His hand looped under her knee. And his stump under the other. Both legs coiled around his waist, her ankles crossing over the other. Podrick resumed kissing her. His cock twitched—he was close. She could feel herself coming undone. Again. _

_When she did, it was his name on her lips that she was screaming._

_His thrusting gradually slowed—once, twice, and then—Oh! A primitive roar bubbled in his throat, erupting from his mouth as he came, spilling into her with such force and passion and desire._

_It took time for them to come down from their high. Podrick stared at her; she was smiling at him._

The event, which only transpired this morning, took hold in memory for Sansa. She caught herself unintentionally thinking about it. Doing so caused her to desire him again. In every which way possible. But, she tempered her unnatural thoughts and focused on her meal, which had gone untouched since her mind drifted.

Jon glanced over. "Sansa, you've barely touched your food," he noted, which had gotten Daenerys' attention as well.

"Shall I have something else brought?"

Sansa shook her head; "Oh, no, it's fine. I'm just… distracted."

"What else has gotten your attention?"

"Oh…" Her eyes briefly drifted longways, until she just barely had visibility of Podrick. "It's nothing…" There, in the corner of her mouth, was a smirk much too well hidden.

_They don't need to know_


	6. This Time, This Place

**This Time, This Place**  
written by Celtic Pixie

..

"The Cycle of True Love: First I see and think I love, then I say I know I love, today and forever more I decide to love."  
― **Michael Sweeney**

..

She returned to her quarters that evening with her cousin hanging off one arm. They chatted and laughed and enjoyed each other's company. But when it came time for her to bid him a goodnight, she gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek and sent him on his way.

Now, it was just her; her and Rheanya.

The handmaiden curtsied low upon seeing Winterfell's queen, then immediately set about drawing up a bath for the woman. Sansa stood by, quietly, contemplating all that she had seen and done since her arrival. It was quickly dawning on her that this was her final night in the capital, which inevitably meant her final night in Podrick's company; she was hoping he would visit her chambers this evening. She could bid him a _proper_ farewell. The more she thought on it, the more she hated herself for doing so.

Sansa wanted to be selfish for once. She wanted to stay. Maybe give up her crown. She could probably get herself adjusted to King's Landin—well, no, she couldn't. Once was enough. And… she couldn't abandon her people like that. She had fought long and hard enough. She wanted nothing more than to be selfish but that was the wishful thinking of a child. She had duties and responsibilities; she couldn't be selfish. Many were counting on her even if there was that part of her that wasn't looking forward to returning. There was little doubt in her mind she would pressured into marrying, producing heirs…

…She could practically hear Cersei Lannister's voice echoing, even now, long after the former queen was long dead, and her body reduced to ashes: _You're a woman now. Do you have any idea what that means?_

_I am fit to bear children for the king.._

_A prospect that once delighted you—bringing little princes and princesses into the world… the greatest honor for a queen._

If the lords wanted an heir off her, she could always name someone? They probably wouldn't agree to that, though. They might insist that Sansa's heir be from the Stark bloodline. Well, if she could find Arya…

Arya was long gone. Only the Gods know where she went. And even if she _did_ know where her sister was and by some means managed to persuade her to return to Winterfell, there was little to no chance of her _acceding_ to Sansa's proposal. Arya was a resolutely independent woman, unconstrained by social outlooks such as courtly virtues. She would rather wander aimlessly through their world than tie herself down to the normal gender expectations of her sex. Sansa knew what happened between her sister and the Baratheon boy; trying to force Arya to conform was akin to kicking a wasps' nest.

Sansa caught herself thinking about Podrick again. When she returned to her home, he could come with her. There's a chance that, perhaps, he could…

No. She couldn't do that. She couldn't beg of him to leave behind this life, a life he fought so fiercely to build for himself. Surrender the Kingsguard?

_Let me be selfish…_

She cannot be… not like this. Royal Guard were sworn for life. They were regarded as the finest of knights in all the Seven Kingdoms. Podrick had certainly earned such an honorable title a thousand times over. Requesting of him to disinherit everything would be such a disgrace. As much as her heart would want her to, Sansa could not bring herself to be _that_ selfish.

Rheanya checked the bath water temperature, flinging excess off her fingers, then walked over to where Sansa stood and proceeded to help her undress. Sansa had said naught in the interim, opting instead to reflect on her thoughts in reticence. She had been grateful that her handmaiden hadn't said anything either, choosing not to question why Sansa looked so melancholy after just returning from a dinner with the king and queen. Even if Rheanya had asked, Sansa wouldn't have told her.

She clambered into the tub and laid back, some of the bathwater sloshing over the edges. Her shoulders slouched, her entire body relaxing, becoming less rigid. It was not long until she drifted off…

_The raised dead fell. The Night King was defeated. For Tyrion and Sansa, it meant relief. For so many others, it meant something different. It meant death. There would be plenty of survivors… but would be plenty of dead as well, and the task of gathering the bodies would be left for the living…_

_Sansa was shaken. Never once had she ever raised a weapon, much less used one. Still, clutched tightly in her right hand, was a dragonglass dagger. She had used on a few wights—there was Gilly and her son Sam, and of course Missandei; it was pure adrenaline that fueled her when she thrusted the blade into the backs of the wights attacking them. _

_Afterwards, after they were sure the dead were defeated, after those in hiding slowly crawled from whatever space they could find, it was Sansa and Tyrion who stood in front of them. Her hands were shaking, though she tried not to notice them. _

_And then… the door! It rattled! _

_Women were shrieking. Children were crying. Sansa tried to soothe them, tried giving them words of encouragement that the dead were defeated. Whoever – or whatever – was attempting to breach the door was friend, not foe. That is what she told herself as well; she didn't know for certain, but it was a decent thought of comfort, at least._

_The door rattled again… and again… and again, bringing that much more ambiguous trepidation to their beating hearts. And then, it burst open, and for a moment, they were afraid…_

_It was Podrick! Beaten, battered, bloodied, and bruised, the young squire came bursting in through the door with sword in hand. Never before had Sansa been so utterly relieved of anything! He surveyed the survivors, looking them all in the eye, one by one. He breathed deeply, shaken to his core but thankful he survived. When at last he was looking upon Tyrion, his former lord, and Sansa, the woman he—_

_Sansa was in his arms before he could breathe again. His tired, weary arms wrapped around her, snugging her body close enough to him as possible. Though he stunk of death, dripped of blood—his own and others—she didn't seem to mind it. She seemed all too grateful to see him alive and breathing. She buried her face in his neck, taking in the musky scent, delighting in the throbbing of the vein beneath his skin. His pulse—the miracle of miracles that assured her he had lived through battle._

_Podrick held her tight to him. She began to sob, salty tears mixing in with blood; both new and old. She didn't care._

The handmaiden woke her, fearing she would drown otherwise; "Your grace! Your grace!" This startled her, but she bolted upright, "You should not fall asleep in the bath, your grace." She was dismissed with a wave of Sansa's hand.

"I am quite well, Rheanya," she insisted; it was just a dream. "Do not worry yourself." She sat forwards a bit more, bringing her knees tight to her chest before standing. She welcomed the handmaiden's assistance in stepping out of the tub, and gladly took the towel offered to her. "Leave me for the night. I wish to dress for bed and read a little before I depart tomorrow."

Nodding, Rheanya had gone.

Sansa ambled closer to her bed and dropped her towel. As she reached for her nightgown, there came a racket from the doorway; had her handmaiden not shut the door proper? She immediately reached for her towel to conceal herself.

Someone had knocked. And then again. Before Sansa could tell the person on the other side to wait until she was decent, the door creaked open. She had a curse ready… until it was Podrick who stepped inside…

Seeing Sansa in such a state of undress, he turned a marvelous shade of red; "I do not wish to disturb you. I only wish to—" She interrupted; her voice saddened.

"—to come say farewell," she finished, and Podrick nodded.

He shut the door behind him… and bolted it.

Sansa took a step backwards, shaking her head. "We… we shouldn't. I, I will not wake tomorrow knowing this will be goodbye…" Her words contradicted her wishes; while she wanted this, more than anything, she kept telling herself they couldn't be selfish.

"Then we should make our final night count," he added, and soon he was crossing the room until he stood in front of her, "don't you think so?"

Before she could blink, or breathe, and before her next heartbeat, Podrick had taken her into his arms. Whatever it was in her that fueled her logic had all but disbanded.

_No_, she thought, _we cannot be selfish as I wanted…_

But she was. _They_ were. Podrick and Sansa proceeded to make love, once more, and it was glorious. And afterwards, as they lay within each other's arms, staring into each other's arms, he kept thinking how he wished for a life in which they could be selfish. As mentioned prior, Sansa had another life waiting for her in Winterfell. Just as Podrick had one here in King's Landing. He would want so badly to be with her, standing next to her through her life… but then logic would argue otherwise.

Sometimes loving someone meant letting them go, no matter how much it would bring pain and sorrow to the other person.

_If she asked it of me, _he thought_, I would go with her…_

They fell asleep soon after, letting their dreams take them to a place they wouldn't have to worry about duty or obligation to each other. They _could_ be selfish, for once in their lives, and not allow others to dictate where to go, what to do, how to act. Just them. Only them.

Podrick wished to grant himself one last moment with her so he could be there as she woke. Consequences be damned.

~.~.~.~.~

Everyone was waiting on the docks to bid their farewells – first, there was Gendry; a formerly unacknowledged bastard son of King Robert Baratheon, legitimized by Queen Daenerys, and inherited all titles formally held by his father prior to ascension to the throne.

Next, there was Bronn of the Blackwater; Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach, and founder of his house. He was sarcastic, held a blackened sense of humor, and pragmatic, amoral philosophy for life. When approached once to be Master of Coin, he quite nearly accepted… before it was Jaime, the King's Hand, who laughed at the prospect; Bronn, unfortunately, agreed with him.

And finally, there was Sansa.

Daenerys shared her gratitude and farewells with her… and then it was Jon's turn. The cousins took a bit longer, revealing in their shared bond. He didn't worry about when he would hear from her again because he knew she would be writing him when she arrived home; she _promised_ she would. Once Jon and Dany had their time saying their farewells, it was Jaime and Brienne. The animosity between the Lannister and Sansa had been strong, especially after everything they had been through, but she learned to accept him… more so after he ventured north to fulfill his vow to fight for the living.

_Kingslayer—a man without honor, sworn sword to his king, Aerys Targaryen, until he drove his sword into that king's back, betraying every vow he ever took. The story was almost as legendary as the act itself. It followed Jaime like a shadow; every step he took, every move he makes—it haunted him like a bad dream he could not wake from. Except, he was awake, and he was living it. But if being awake was like living a lie than he must be living more of a truth when asleep, when he could turn away from being judged. Brienne was able to see through him once, into the man no one knew him as; he told her the hard truth about the Mad King, the story no one in the Seven Kingdoms knew._

_Sansa spoke up; she'd been silent, up until now; "You're right. We can't trust him." Daenerys, and every other lord or lady sitting in that room now all looked to the Lady of Winterfell. "He attacked my father in the streets, he tried to destroy our house and my family- " she indicated towards Daenerys- "-the same as he did yours."_

_"You want me to apologize? I won't!" Jaime sucked in a breath; he could probably hang for his words, probably deserved it, among other things, but he continued on; "We were at war. Everything I did for my house and my family. I'd do it all again." Swallowing a tiny lump into his belly, he took a step; the Unsullied standing at Jon's side gripped hard his weapon, as a few people inched to move against the Lannister cunt, and Jaime tried not to imagine his head rolling onto the floor as Grey Worm lobbed it off his shoulders. "Your grace, milady—I won't ask for forgiveness because I __can't__. I can't give you what you seek—because the man you abhor so much no longer exists."_

He was right in the assumption; that man no longer existed. Now, Sansa had come to regard him as something else. Maybe not quite a friend but they were somewhat cordial to each other these days.

Brienne attempted a bow, but Sansa wasn't having it.

_Brienne exhaled slowly, releasing the breath she didn't realize she'd been holding; avoiding the gazes and the suspicious looks from the others as she pushed herself to stand, cross the room, and put herself between Jaime and Daenerys's piercing glare; she disputed, "You don't know me well, your Grace, but I know Ser Jaime. He is a man of honor. I was his captor once. But when we were both taken prison and the men holding us tried to force themselves on me, Ser Jaime defended me—and lost his hand because of it." Her gaze shifted from the dragon queen to Sansa, and she was sure her heart was pounding enough to start singing. "Without him, milady, you would not be alive. He armed me, armored me, and sent me to find you and bring you home… because he had sworn an oath to your mother…"_

_Bran had remained silent for the better part of this gathering; but he had been watching, and he'd been reading them like a book, and he had been studying the way Jaime and Brienne acted, taking note of the heightened awareness. "The things we do for love." It was emotional, to the fact, and managed to instill a silence unlike the one broken only by the crackle of fire._

_And suddenly, every last person in that room had all been looking at the young lord; including Brienne, whose blood had run hot in her veins and whose breathing had sharpened in her chest. His words had pushed a dagger through her heart; her mind called back a moment between them, before __this __moment, as he informed her of Jaime's lone arrival, though not being too direct. Brienne realized that Bran had known the entire time, and he knew she would stand for Jaime, and vouch for him as she was doing now._

_Daenerys took a minute, once she had come back into herself, and then her glare was on Jaime; "The only fact of the matter is that you are standing here because of the small mercies we have granted you." Small mercies—it wasn't something Jaime deserved; Sansa knew this, Daenerys knew this. The dragon queen wanted him dead the moment she learned of him crossing into Winterfell. There was only one reason Jaime Lannister was still breathing—and that reason was standing in front of him._

_Sansa had no cause in the world to doubt the woman's courage or loyalty. Watching Brienne speaking on Ser Jaime's behalf had filled her soul with joy. It definitely wasn't a matter of question; she knew how Brienne felt towards the Kingslayer. "Lady Brienne, I trust you with my life. If you trust him with yours…then we should let him stay…"_

Sansa disconnected from their embrace.. and then looked somewhere off in the distance, past Brienne, for someone else. She desperately wanted him to be here, to at least see her off, but she would never let him go if he had been here. Maybe it was for the best…

Sansa was reluctant to leave but she knew Podrick had been right—they _couldn't_ be selfish, not when there were others counting on them.

As much as it pained her heart, Sansa stepped into that carriage and sat back as the horsemaster spurred them on and away from King's Landing. She had waited, and watched out the opened window, as if she thought Podrick would appear at the last moment, waving her off, wishing her the best of luck… and she would know his love had gone with her…

When the carriage traveled a far enough distance from the capital, and Sansa resigned herself to the fact she wouldn't be seeing Podrick, her body slunk back into the seat. She took the moment to wipe away her tears. Regardless of how heartbroken, she knew they would always have those nights together… wrapped up in each other's arms, their naked bodies entwined—

Sansa was fighting back tears just thinking about it, thinking about what they once had, and understanding what could not be. The more she shifted, the more she tried distancing her mind—it hadn't worked. She was thinking of him. Why hadn't he been there to see her off?

After adjusting her dress, she reached into her bodice where a special letter had been kept. The seal of the Lady Commander on the back and her name written on the front. Sansa broken the seal and unfolded the letter.

_Dearest Sansa…_

_There has been no other in my life who has brought me as much happiness as you have. You have shown me a kind of love I have never known before. All the encouragement you have given me through the years we have known each other, but more so in these last few days, have been the best I could have hoped for. I was shy, and nervous, and hesitant when I asked you to dance with me but all I knew was how much I wanted you in my arms. We were strangers once, scarcely making eye contact, but I have loved you even then._

_You have successfully brought a joy and warmth to my heart. I felt… alive. Being apart from you now is the most unnatural feeling. The distance is great but know that my heart travels with you. Knowing I cannot touch you or kiss you or love you as you should be. I don't know how reassuring reading that will be, but I want you to know that I will always love you. You have no idea how you have changed my life for the better._

_I know that one day, maybe not too long from now, our lives will be changing once more. Perhaps in another one neither of us will expect. Take solace in knowing I will be thinking of you for the rest of my days. You have my heart… now and always…_

_I love you, truly love you, and I'll be seeing you…_

_All my love,_

_Podrick…._


End file.
